


A Place of Strength

by thepartwhere



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Age Difference, Angst, Boromir Lives, Canon Divergence - The Lord of the Rings, Character Development, Developing Friendships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Romance, Slow Burn, Tenth Walker, like even slower than The Province of Men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25385674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepartwhere/pseuds/thepartwhere
Summary: When Boromir of Gondor passes the Mark seeking allies for his journey North, Éohild is put forth as his companion. Swept into lands unknown, alliances of old, and a desperate quest filled with hope and despair in equal measure, she must decide what part she will play when war begins to march on all she holds dear. 10th walker fic, Boromir/OC. AU to The Province of Men.
Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/OFC, Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/Original Character(s), Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/Original Female Character(s), Boromir/OC, Boromir/OFC
Comments: 16
Kudos: 24





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! Senna here.
> 
> Welcome, one and all, to another obligatory 10th Walker fic! But this one's for Boromir.
> 
> Yes, we know Tolkien really meant to have 9 walkers against Sauron's Nazgûl. Yes, we know sibling OCs (she's the youngest to Éomer and Éowyn) are ultra Sues and all that. Yes, we still want to publish it into the archive anyway. (And this account loves OCs like that, oops. And we promise that we really do put emphasis on character development regardless - you'll see.)
> 
> The OC, Éohild, will become friends with those of the Company, and she will be closer in friendship with some members than others, because that's how big groups of people work. The circumstances of her induction into the Fellowship may or may not be acceptable to you, and we accept that. Doesn't mean you can't complain about it, of course. Though I should say now that I enjoy writing this story and hate (not criticism btw - just straight up hate) won't really deter us from writing or posting more of this. I would however be greatly encouraged by learning if you enjoyed reading the story, or what your favorite part/s was/were, so we'd love it if you'd leave a comment below!
> 
> This prologue reveals a bit of Éohild's younger years. Please note that this story follows mostly the events of the film series, though it does take a few details from the book, most especially the part on Boromir's long journey to Rivendell. 
> 
> If you find you like Éohild (eventually, we hope, as the story progresses) but prefer to see her with someone else, we do have an AU of this story up on the archive as well called The Province of Men, which is a Legolas/OC fic. A Place of Strength and The Province of Men are AUs of each other featuring the same OC with the same history. You'll see that the two stories share prologues, for example, since the prologue introduces the character, though with a few details changed. The stories are most similar here, but as the chapters go on, the choices Éohild makes will change in each story, and of course the stories completely diverge come Amon Hen. Either way, if you plan to read both stories, we suggest taking them as two entirely different universes.
> 
> We hope you enjoy, and we'd love to hear what you think!

The girl bolted round the corner, lunging past the yelping maidens and ignoring the shrill reprimands from the older women of the hall. Plates clanged and curses rang out, but she stopped only when she reached the main hall, eyes briefly darting to the dais where the King's throne stood gloriously. When no Uncle of hers sat upon it, she gave an urgent yelp and bounded for the great doors. The guards smiled almost expectantly and pulled forward, allowing the pale morning light to flood the hall in a silvery-blue glow.

"No!" cried the girl, arms outstretched and doing nothing to correct the sweaty, sleep-mussed hair all over her face. Dramatics executed, she dropped her hands on her knees in dismay, panting for breath. Led by Théoden King, the thunderous galloping of horses slipped from the gates of Edoras and turned westward until they were but a wave of brown, black, and white sweeping across the green plains of the Riddermark.

"Éohild," said a young man nearing thirty summers, though he looked closer to twenty. He was tall and golden-haired, traits for which their people were well-known, though unlike most men of the Eorlingas he was more broadly built than lithe. Prince Théodred of the Mark did not conceal the mirth in his tone. "Had you not slept past midnight, you might have seen Éomer go."

Éohild was the youngest daughter of Éomund, husband to the king's beloved sister. She had only seen five winters when Orcs slew her father and grief, her mother, and so kept little memory of them, depending instead on the tales recounted by Éomer and Éowyn, her elder brother and sister. Their uncle Théoden King raised them as his own son and daughters, so it was he she loved like a father, and Théodred a brother Éomer could depend on whenever she and Éowyn were too busy shoving one another in the mud

Ten years old and hardly afraid of her cousin, famed Rider though he was, Éohild huffed and crossed her arms. "It is unfair."

Beside her, an older girl nodded sullenly in agreement. Prepubescent, lanky, and nearly awkward, Éowyn was her sister, two years ahead of her and four years behind their brother. This morning was his very first ride out with their uncle, and she had hoped against hope that Théoden would change his mind and allow her to join them—to no avail. When Éohild would not wake at her prodding, she had gone out of Meduseld on her own. "It is."

"I do not think you speak of the same injustice," Théodred laughed. "But they are gone, and there is little to be done about father's decision."

"But _cousin_ ," Éowyn whirled at him, gray eyes steeling. "One word from you and Uncle would change his mind. He loves you dearly."

"And he is dear to me, in turn. But if only to keep you both safe, I would not speak with him again."

Éohild sighed. "Why should we learn to fight if we never partake in battle, cousin?"

"For a time I pray will never arrive," was his answer. And then, patting her rumpled hair, he ushered the sisters inside their home. "Come, now. Éohild, I believe breakfast is in order."

"Oh!" Éohild jumped, latching onto the prince's hand. "I _am_ hungry."

"Éohild!" Éowyn exclaimed, rushing in after them. "You are too easily persuaded."

"But I am _hungry_ ," she answered, as though it was reason enough.

Éowyn shook her head and took to their cousin's side. "You might deter Éohild, but I know there is no reason for trapping me here!" she said to him in a furious whisper.

Théodred continued to steer Éohild toward the dining hall, smiling when she glanced at him. He patiently replied to Éowyn, "Neither does a reason exist that tells me why you should join an éored. I guide and train you with the sword; Éohild long daggers for her little arms—"

"My arms are not so little!"

He petted her head but did not turn his gaze from Éowyn. "Is that not enough? It has become the standard that a Rider should possess the ability to slay an Orc. Could you? This is not simply a means for gaining honor, cousin."

In the hardened gaze reflected in his royal blue eyes, Éowyn could almost see Théodred's father in their younger days, whenever she and Éohild used to shove each other in the mud. Unable to match it, she turned away. Still she muttered, "…I could."

The heated mood dissipated when Théodred laughed and said in a singsong voice, "We shall see, Éowyn." And then they arrived at the dining hall, where the prince asked the serving women to prepare their breakfast.

* * *

They did not see; at least, not until two years passed. The younger of the King's sister-daughters had jumped from the top of Éowyn's chest to above her, so that she reached only Éohild's eyebrows. She took her sister's place not as appearing nearly awkward but completely, though she was not clumsy as one might expect. Meanwhile, Éowyn at fourteen was already in bloom, no longer gangly but slender and beautiful, and all the girls her age and older sighed dreamily at the thought of Éomer, who had grown into their father's lean but broad-shouldered build. Yet Théodred remained the most eligible man in the Riddermark, and his skill earned him the station of Second Marshal of the Mark.

Théodred was away at the Hornburg, as was often of late. After he took the position he passed the guidance of his beloved cousins to Gamling, a lieutenant of his father's, though Éomer believed that his sisters were capable enough of defending themselves and should not be so encouraged to learn the art of war any longer.

By this time, the yearning to join the Riders was a desire Éohild now shared with her older sister. Within Éowyn, it intensified till it ached and burned, though she had learned to hide her bitterness with a collected façade for the sake of being a proper Lady to show respect for her Uncle. To her chagrin, Éohild seemed to have taken her constantly-slighted demeanor as well, knowing of but refusing to apply the secret to feigning an air of responsibility leaning toward precociousness at their age, which the court women preferred to Éohild's surly attitude.

The sisters stood together on the highest hill in Edoras, atop the stairs before the doors of Meduseld. It had become a ritual: meeting there with Éomer and granting him good-luck kisses before allowing him to ride off without them. Below, a soft breeze weaved through the thatched roofs of their people. Shielding her eyes from the glaring sunlight with a hand, Éohild watched the dust cloud of the King's Riders disappear over the horizon, where dark clouds gathered together.

"This is unforgivable," she declared.

"It is," agreed Éowyn, looking quite displeased but without her sister's decidedly sour expression.

Éohild frowned at her sister's apparent lack of ire. "Your tone _betrays_ your indignation."

"There is little use for stomping one's feet," Éowyn explained, taking her sister's hand. "Men believe what their eyes see… only by this truth can we prove our worth."

Éohild's eyes widened. She shared the hazel of Éomer's; it was their father's before them. "Do you mean…?"

For the past month, Éohild had hounded Éowyn with an idea that came to her one morning, when she was trapped in the kitchen with Wynne, the head cook, learning more recipes the woman swore to the King would benefit her future husband and family. To her misfortune, her uncle had agreed that his sister-daughters should spend a little more time learning kitchen duties so that managing the details of their own household someday would not be so difficult. It was not that Éohild disliked cooking, or chores, or Wynne's fondness for lecturing; she simply had not the patience for waiting.

She knew it was a fool's scheme, but it hounded her in thought and dream until her heart accepted it as a sound idea, good enough for a try.

In any case, Éowyn refused and swore her plan would be the end of them, and if not then their uncle would surely disown them – but if there was anything Éowyn had ever wanted to do for the Mark, it was to protect her home from any danger that might threaten it, face-to-face. Even to die for it. Not setting the table in preparation for the arrival of the King's Riders; not even issuing the orders to the serving maidens. It would serve no purpose for a land in ruins.

"Yes."

Éohild's surly countenance disappeared as she raised her hands in exaltation. "Glorious day!"

Amused and excited, Éowyn watched her sister's eager grin only grow as she explained her plan. She did not recall ever being so passionate with such theatrics. Even so, if this failed to prove a point to their uncle, everything else would; and she could not resign herself to the indolence the Mark demanded she accept without once, at least, trying to prove she was worthy of something greater. As soon as their slow march reached their room, Éowyn wobbled faintly and fell forward.

Noticing at the very last second, Éohild leapt and caught her sister by the shoulders. Touching Éowyn's forehead, she pulled back her hand as though seared by a boiling pot and gasped. "She's burning. Summon Céolwin!"

In hindsight, as Éomer would later grumble, perhaps Éowyn did not have any business listening to a girl who did not even yet wear a chest sling.

* * *

"My lady, your sister needs her rest. Your worries will not heal her," said Céolwin, resident healer of Edoras. She was only a decade beneath Théoden but looked much younger, hair a darker shade blonde than the rest of them. The guards called for her at once after Éowyn was brought to her bed. The woman insisted that she had just seen the king's niece the day previous and it was impossible for her to be ill. She could not deny, however, that the heat Éowyn exuded and the fatigued fluttering of her eyelids that occurred whenever she woke from her intensely troubled sleep were unsettling. "I shall return within the next hour to have a quick bath prepared."

Éowyn's arm twitched. She gave a pained groan.

"N-No!" Éohild cried, squeezing between Céolwin and the bed. "I shall give her the bath. You… say, after all, that we must learn more healing methods?"

Céolwin narrowed her almond-shaped eyes. "This is not the time for practice, my lady. If Lady Éowyn is in grave condition…"

Éohild wore solemnity like the steeliest helms of the Eorlingas. "Allow me a simple fever like this, Céolwin. I should care the most for her – and I will bring her broth."

The healer was none the wiser, and her posture relaxed. "Very well, my lady. But you will summon me."

"I promise. Thank you, Céolwin."

Céolwin departed with an uneasy smile. Éohild shut the door behind her and leaned against it with a sigh. When she heard the healer's footsteps disappear down the hall, she frowned. "Sometimes you act too well, Éowyn. It isn't good to have her too worried!"

Éowyn sat upright, throwing the heavy covers off her body. "How was I to know? Your plan entailed _deathly ill_!"

"Not ill enough to draw Céolwin's enduring attention!"

"I could have only been extremely fatigued from the heat," said Éowyn, lowering her voice and crossing her arms, an indication that the argument was over and she had won.

Éohild disliked the look ever since she grew taller than Éowyn. From above her nose her eyes looked narrowed, but those who were taller than Éowyn, generally men, would see a pout and doe eyes that would melt the caps of the Misty Mountains. She rolled her own. "I would have been forced to run with boiling water before Céolwin arrived in either story."

"It was a pint, Éohild. And I was made to _cover_ my forehead with that hot rag to convince them of your story. Among others."

"All the more precarious."

Éowyn threw her feet off the bed and shed her dress, under which she wore the tunic Théodred had had tailored for them during sword practice. Matching light trousers she took from her wardrobe, and boots she swiped from under the bed. "Are we to argue or to act?"

Hand reaching for the doorknob, Éohild sighed. "The gate. Ten minutes. Are you certain you can distract the guards?"

"Are you certain you can take armor and helmets for us both?"

Éohild huffed.

"The gate. Ten minutes." Hair swept into a ponytail for obscurity, Éowyn lifted the window and climbed out. The sisters had learned every brick out of place beneath their sill and knew the way without falling by heart to sneak to the stables over the past two years. When she disappeared and the sill latch clicked closed, Éohild exited the room. She locked the door and slipped the key into the chest sling she secretly wore. At her age, after all, Éowyn had already worn one! She was convinced it was only a matter of months before she finally grew into hers.

To humor her, Éomer often showed Éohild the roads the king's éored would take whenever shifting paths according to reports of attacks, danger, or simply to maximize areas as they made rounds. So preoccupied was Éohild with trying to remember the new one he showed her last night that she almost disregarded the call of her name.

It was Bertana, one of Wynne's aids. She had two daughters, a toddler son, and her husband was one of Théodred's Riders. She was one of the more pleasant members of the castle staff, except when there was too much to do in the kitchen such as a banquet, then Wynne's constant orders drove her into the state of a panicked wife about to birth a child and she was delegated the task of sweeping, instead.

Éohild whirled. "Bertana." She put on a smile and then dimmed it. Éowyn was ailing, after all.

"How is the Lady? I heard news from Leófe and Eafa," said the older woman, referring to the twins. Eafa was the male of the two, one of the guards of the King's household , while the girl Leófe was an apprentice to Céolwin. She had accompanied the healer and subsequently disappeared during the process of diagnosis. Nearly two decades old and they still gossiped when the opportunity so came.

"She wishes for you not to see her in her… state," answered Éohild. "It is best you don't enter. Or anyone, for that matter. If you must give her something, send it through me. Her door is locked for that reason." That excuse would hold well enough, in case anyone sought out Éowyn. She hoped.

"The poor Lady," Bertana sighed. "A meal would surely lift her spirits."

"Er—Céolwin said broth would only worsen her condition." Éohild silently berated herself. That did not coincide with what she had said to the healer at all. "At least, if given immediately. Perhaps later. Much later." When they were already in the company of her uncle.

"Well… if the healer says so," Bertana nodded her assent after a moment of pondering. "But," she asked with some confusion, "where are you going, milady?"

"My brother's chambers. I left my cloak there when I borrowed a band for my hair," she answered. She had it figured already in her mind – Éomer's room was closest to the barracks to the side of Meduseld. Her brother kept all the essentials in his room in case of an attack: his sword and armor, of course, honing steel, sharpening steel, and the like. One of these was rope, and she would tie it to Éomer's sill latch and climb down with her tunic, trousers and boots which she'd planted while Éowyn played the dying young woman. Some squires left their armor in the barracks at night and more than once she had already worn those she managed to 'borrow.'

Bertana accepted her reason and bade her farewell. Éohild set to the task, unlocking her brother's room with a spare key he had given her and Éowyn in case a thief ever climbed in and he cried out for help. (That was upon Éowyn's insistence, for Éohild knew prideful Éomer would never think of crying out for help as he would never need it.) Locking it again from within, she pushed open the window. A strong breeze like a warning puffed into her face, blowing back her hair, but Éohild ignored it and inched down the rope, palms sweating and burning at the same time. Her feet touched the ground lightly, and then she tiptoed to the barracks at the base of Meduseld's hill, hiding behind a path of shrubs.

The mixed murmur and footsteps of Riders reached her ears, but it was near dinnertime and they were on their way to the dining hall. Éohild easily slipped past their notice and ducked inside. Collecting the armor they needed, she trudged as quietly as she could to the stables. A young gray horse greeted her with a whinny, to which Éohild replied with an index finger to her lips.

"Hush, Windfola!"

Windfola was Éowyn's horse, but Éohild had practiced with him well enough before and had yet to receive her own. She was beginning to suspect that they would never assign her one.

Nearly slouching under the weight of her helm and squire livery, Éohild packed Éowyn's things into their mount's saddlebag. She was tall enough to be mistaken for a young lad leading his horse around the village for a walk. Twilight was a peculiar time of the day to be wandering, and the women in the city would wonder as to the lad's identity with the staff of Meduseld the next day - but by then they should have already caught up with their uncle's éored and slain a few Orcs, proving their worth as warriors. It was the perfect plan. Taking a deep breath, Éohild tugged gently at Windfola's reins and led him out of the stable.

Éowyn's hair followed the slight wind. In the dark evening she might have passed for a lad, but in the dusk she was only lovelier than ever. She stood out too much with those features that contrasted with her tunic. Éohild wasn't surprised to see that she'd opted to speak with the guard as her own pretty self and was motioning to the gate. They were fortunate that news of her illness had not yet spread to the gate despite Eofe's efforts; or perhaps Éowyn was telling the guard of her desire to walk outside despite her fever? Éohild would never understand how her sister managed to evade suspicion so easily in all matters.

At any rate, the gate was starting to open.

Éohild stopped at the edge of the slope, patting Windfola's head in a distracted manner though her gaze remained on Éowyn. The sign was her head lolling backward. When her sister staggered to the side, Éohild swung onto Windfola and went as fast as she could.

"Éowyn!" she called.

Her sister leapt from the soldier's arms and caught Éohild's outstretched hand, climbing Windfola's back. Hearts pounding in their ears, excited mirth hiccuping from their throats, they rode swiftly out of Edoras until the panicked shouting of the guards were no longer in range.

Minutes later, the sisters calmed their laughter and Éohild cleared her throat, head turning slightly to the side. " _That_ was a distraction?"

"Could you have thought of one more practical?" was Éowyn's retort, adding with measured disgust, "Men cannot resist a fainting maiden."

"True," Éohild acquiesced, and then focused on following the road the king's éored had taken as she remembered Éomer's telling of it. The horse tracks were a great aid, of course, to find a way through the unending rise and fall of hills and trees in their country. But the sky grew darker as the minutes passed, and when the two sisters raised their eyes to the heavens to discover why not a speck of light from the moon guided them, they saw clouds. Multitudes of thick gray clouds, though they couldn't know in such a darkness. Still young and untrained, Windfola pawed uneasily at the ground.

"Shh, Windfola," Éowyn murmured, leaning past her sister and stroking the horse's neck. "It's all right…" When he calmed slightly, trotting forward again – for they had unknowingly slowed as the clouds crept in – she asked her sister, "Where are we going?"

"Well—forward," was Éohild's answer. She kept her voice steady for Windfola's sake. "If I remember correctly, the reports given to Uncle said that the Orcs were not far from the large hills near the White Mountains, a little southeast of Edoras."

"And so we have traveled southeast-ward," Éowyn sighed. "Why have we not seen Orcs? Where is Éomer? Uncle's éored?"

"They must have gone further out. They did…" Éohild frowned. "…leave early…"

Éowyn huffed. "Pray they left us a few."

Her tone brought back Éohild's conviction. "Yes," she laughed. "An utter waste, should we arrive there with Orcs already smoking in a pyre!"

But as if to punish their sneaking about, the sky brightened for a moment, revealing the row of hills they had sought since they left Edoras, only to crackle wickedly—Éohild was certain she recognized the shape of that lightning bolt, unfurling powerfully upon the night like branches of a glorious white tree—and dim, and then send a heavy shower of rain to wash away any tracks they might have found if they thought to dismount.

The sisters had no recourse but to head for the tall hills. To the last of their fortune, one of these was hollow, containing an earthy cavern within. It led to a small tunnel connecting what may have been all the hills they had seen, but they could never know, too preoccupied with seeking shelter from the cold.

Setting out the little blankets they had deep into that hole in the hills, Éohild and Éowyn sat together near a fire. It was small and barely five wisps of a flame, but it was all they could muster with the materials they were willing to spare. Windfola sat close to it, keeping it alive with his proximity, and allowed the girls to lie against him.

When she was finished wringing out her hair, Éowyn grumbled. "This was a terrible idea. I told you."

"But you wanted to do it!" Éohild cried, sitting up. Windfola jerked in annoyance. "If this was against your will, you—"

"All right, all right," said Éowyn, raising her voice to meet her sister's. "Let us not bicker. We shall find our way home in the morning."

Éohild made a face at her. This was another way Éowyn ended arguments these days when she knew she was losing. Still, she agreed and lay back on the gray horse. "Éomer will be furious."

The sisters exchanged grimaces before bursting into giggles. They had turned teasing their irritable brother into a sport to spite him for being permitted to join the ranks of the Riders. He disliked Grima, one of their Uncle's bug-eyed but well-meaning advisors, and absolutely hated it when they jested about him becoming a member of the man's personal guard.

Éowyn sighed. "A shame neither of us was able to kill an Orc for all this trouble."

"If we were there," Éohild yawned, curling up to her sister, "vanquishing those Orcs would be much easier."

Éowyn made a motion of drawing her sword and slicing it sideways, then powerfully thrusting it forward. "I would kill one right between the eyes."

"I always imagined I would hack the legs off my enemies," Éohild grinned. "When I was little."

"You are still little."

"Not as little as you."

Éowyn rolled her eyes, but was too tired to argue. For a few moments, only the flickering fire made any sound until Éohild spoke again.

"This is what it must mean."

Rest came close for Éowyn, and so she didn't bother to look at Éohild. Her throat was hoarse when she asked in what felt like hours later, "…What?"

"Adventure," Éohild answered immediately. Her sister wondered if she was sleep-talking given the languid manner in which she uttered it. "It… It's sleeping on the hard, unforgiving ground with naught but a blanket in the shivering cold."

Éowyn opened her eyes with the slightest smile. "Let us not forget a trusty Windfola." She patted his back, but he was lucky enough to have already been fast asleep. Drawing her blanket closer to Éohild, she asked, "Do you regret it?"

"No!" Éohild muttered with what may have been the last of her energy. Her eyes were already closed. Or they could have always been. Éohild's voice grew softer until she could no longer hear it. "Not… for a moment…"

Éohild slept, but she never truly rested. She woke in short bursts and stirred at the smallest noises. Once, when she realized the rain had finally subsided and their fire had long fallen to ash, she could no longer return to her dreams of an irrefutable despair far away from home. The murmuring that reached her ears was not the pitter-patter of rain. A rotten stench filled her senses even before she was aware of it, and she could see a faint orange light near the entrance of the cave. She could tell that it was fire; not the dawn.

"Éowyn," she whispered, shaking her sister roughly. "Éowyn, we're not alone."

Éowyn grumbled. The murmurs grew louder; in fear, Éohild clamped her hand over her own mouth. She rose slowly, legs trembling, cringing when she swallowed. Her hands were freezing when she buckled on her belt sheath and tiptoed closer to the intruders, in contrast with the sweat rising on her back. Did they hear it?

Disfigured shadows crept high on the cavern wall against the fire. There were four of them. She could barely make out the words between the grunting, but Éohild was certain she did not mishear _filthy Men_. One of them hurled his sword at the ground within Éohild's sight at the turn of the tunnel. It was encased in a grubby scabbard; a kind her Uncle had brought back more than once. These were Orcs.

Éohild thought her chest might burst. Her first instinct was to glance where Éowyn remained hidden, to her relief. They could wait until the Orcs left and then they would be safe. If it came to blows, then—then she wished more than anything that their brother would find them.

A shadow came upon Éohild's feet as soon as she turned back. Upon closer inspection, it was hardly a spectre cast by the fire. It wouldn't stink of blood and sweat if it were, for one. Or snicker, hoist her up by the shoulders, and throw her to the ground at the feet of its companions.

Éohild felt the bruises forming on her knees and arms, though her blinding, deafening awareness of the beasts that surrounded her imbued in the girl the presence of mind to rise. It could not be contested that they were ugly. Éomer and Théodred had described them before, and this vision was far worse than she had ever imagined. To her mind the monsters that had slain her father were gurgling, roaring beasts with fanged teeth and blood made of poison. With the little bravery she had, she looked upon one and saw that though they were hideous indeed, they were hardly incoherent.

"What do we have here?"

By their accents she could not tell whence they had come, but that they could speak frightened her all the more. It meant they could think, plan, outmaneuver her. She felt as though they towered over her by at least a head or two, though she could not tell if it was her own gripping fear making them greater in her eyes. Éohild's trembling arms crossed over her body, and the Orcs howled in laughter all the louder.

"A little girl."

Éohild tried to remember what it was Théodred and Gamling had taught them for so many years. The basic stances and the more complicated maneuvers faded as quickly as they came to mind, however, as all she wanted to do was break into tears. She would not call for her sister. If she were to die, was all it could repeat over and over again, then at least Éowyn would live to see tomorrow. Once the Orcs left the cavern, her sister could return to Edoras and Éomer would avenge her death.

"Fresh meat."

If Théodred were in her position, he would fight his way out completely unscathed, hair flowing gloriously behind him. Éomer would have thought to tell someone where he was going, at least, in case his plan went awry. And Uncle Théoden would never have gotten himself into this to begin with.

"Just what I was hankerin' for!"

"No!" Éohild cried. If she was going to die, then the honorable thing to do was to go down in battle. They would sing that she slew at least one Orc before her untimely death and be remembered as…

Her own mind trailed off as one of them drew its sword. "Which tastes better – the leg or the gut?" it asked, licking its black lips.

Éohild let out a yell, drawing two long daggers from her belt sheath. By the time the Orcs realized she had actual weapons, however, one of them had already fallen by the longsword of the young woman they had neglected to take into account.

"You will not touch my sister, Orc," spat Éowyn, raising her blade at those who now faced her.

When they snarled and then laughed at Éowyn's similarly shaking grip, Éohild shouted again. Running toward the Orc in closest range, she sliced her twin blades across its knees. Their skin was thicker than she had imagined. The Orc only grunted and moved to kick her, and Éohild threw herself sideways to dodge a moment too late. It kicked her on her back and looked around for its sword. Struggling to roll over to her knees and coughing while it found its weapon, she plunged a dagger between its legs.

"Come here, brat!" roared the Orc who had first caught her. It lifted her by the neck this time, and Éohild wondered if it felt any remorse at all for its companions. The Orcs hardly reacted at the death of one of their own.

"Release her, beast!" demanded Éowyn, dodging the others lunging at her to attack it. Her sword managed to cut deeply into its shoulder before it pulled away with a bellow to maneuver its own weapon so that hers flew out of her grasp.

"Stay down," it hissed, slapping her across the face hard enough to knock her into the cavern wall. Éowyn fell unconscious to the ground.

"Éowyn!" Éohild choked out. Strength overpowered the fear that had gripped her and begged to come out of her fingers and heels. Eyes on her sister, she swung her feet at the Orc's stomach and knocked the wind out of it.

The Orc swore and released her, allowing her to ignore her bruising knees so that she could crouch and retake her dagger from a dead one's pelvic bone - right as another swung his sword over her head. Still on all fours, she scurried over and stabbed its foot. Shrieking, it hacked at her neck, but she dropped to her left, rolling on her back. It nearly chopped her hair off. In its furious haste to lunge at her exposed gut, the Orc tripped over Éohild's outlying leg. That was certain now to bruise as well.

Éohild scampered to her feet and leapt at the Orc while it recovered, knifing it in the back and thrusting her other dagger into its neck for good measure.

"You're dead," snarled the last one. She'd forgotten him in her panic. Éohild would always remember the face of the first Orc she laid eyes on, advancing towards her, lifting his sword—

A loud whinny echoed throughout the cave. Both Éohild and the Orc paused until the eyes of the former widened. The Orc followed her gaze and shrieked in dismay and agony as a gray horse of the Mark came upon him and trampled him to death.

It seemed a long while after she vomited at the side of the cave when Éohild simply fell to one spot, staring at Windfola's bloody hooves and her own weapons, bathed in thick black fluid that once coursed life into a monster. When the only sounds left were her ragged breathing and Windfola stomping on the dead Orcs for good measure, the horse sniffing disdainfully, Éohild dropped her knives and struggled to stand. All the energy she possessed during the fight had somehow escaped her as soon as they were safe. When she could not rise, she crawled to her sister, wiping her own mouth. Any slower and Éowyn's heartbeat would proclaim her dead.

"Éowyn!" screamed Éohild with all her might. This was not the adventure they had planned. The result would have left them both alive. Perhaps not unscathed, but alive in excitement at their first kills. "Éowyn!"

Éohild felt her eyes sting and her throat catch with tears, but contained herself and kept to the task of waking Éowyn, slapping her, yelling and threatening her if she did not budge. When she finally went hoarse, Éohild resorted to cradling Éowyn in her arms and weakly singing an old lullaby, Windfola lying protectively at their side, until the battering of hooves startled the ground near the earthy caverns and she heard their names echoing in the distance.


	2. Son of Gondor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, everyone! Senna again. Please read this before you go on to the chapter.
> 
> There's something I'd like to clarify about this fic, for this chapter especially, with regard to Boromir, Denethor, and Faramir. First of all, we'll definitely be mixing book and film events here to suit the story.
> 
> For example, in the films, Sauron attacks Osgiliath. Faramir, apparently charged with protecting it with few men, loses the battle, but Boromir comes with reinforcements and retakes Osgiliath. Boromir gives his speech about reclaiming the city (shown only in the extended version, I think?). In the book, however, Sauron's attack left only a few survivors, because Gondor lost spectacularly. Only Boromir, Faramir, and two others (I think) survived, and they had to swim across the river to get away. Sauron's attack was mostly to let the Nazgûl get across the river so they could begin their long journey hunting the Ring on very little information.
> 
> Another is that in the films again, when Boromir and Faramir are celebrating the victory in Osgiliath, Denethor arrives to congratulate Boromir (and berate Faramir) and to tell him that he wants Boromir to go to Rivendell, because Lord Elrond has called for a meeting, though Elrond didn't say why. Denethor says he has guessed its purpose - the Ring has been found. Boromir knows it as Isildur's Bane, since in the films, knowledge of the One Ring (and how Isildur lost it) is widespread. In the books, the Ring is not well known, and the reason Boromir looks for Rivendell is that Faramir has a dream a few times, where a voice says a couple of things, which basically tells them to go to Imladris (Rivendell). Boromir has the dream once, and they ask Denethor (who is a great loremaster apart from a wise man) about it. For some reason, Gondor has forgotten where Rivendell/Imladris is, and all Denethor could tell them was that Imladris is where Lord Elrond dwells. Boromir insisted on being the one to find it (rather than Faramir) since it was a dangerous journey, but Denethor did not want him to leave. Boromir insisted, and eventually Denethor let him.
> 
> Though you'll pick it up as the story goes along, I just want to clarify that for the purposes of this story, this is how things went: Sauron sent forces to attack Osgiliath, Faramir lost because he was sent with few men, and Boromir arrives to help him reclaim it. However, the Nazgûl do slip through (since they must be able to find Frodo, after all). Not long after, Faramir and then Boromir have the dream telling them about Imladris and Isildur's Bane, etc., and Boromir decides they must find it. Though Denethor would prefer that Boromir stay, he decides that yes, Boromir should be the one to go since it's a dangerous journey.
> 
> That's all! Please enjoy the chapter.

Stragglers. That was what Théodred called the Orcs they had faced. It was their cousin's éored who had found them first, having encountered some Riders stationed in Edoras setting out to find the sisters right as they returned home. The prince knew the two well enough to understand their short-sighted plan and set out for the path his father had taken.

They met a Rider from the King's men not long after. It was common practice for an éored to send one of its knights ahead to Edoras to alert the city of their arrival. The prince sent him back to Théoden King with a message: _Tell Éomer not to panic._

The message only caused the boy more worry, of course. He begged his Uncle to let him ride back to the hills, to let him search for his sisters – for what else could Théodred have meant? – but Théoden was of a mind with his son and refused, resolutely. He ordered his nephew to calm himself and wait until Théodred returned, and with good news. At least, he prayed it would be so.

Théodred wasted no time getting to them, taking Brego and his fastest Riders to search the land for any trace of his cousins, if only they had not been washed away by the rain. In the end, his horse led them to the caverns. Brego protested fiercely against galloping past a stretch of the hills they had not yet explored.

When he climbed the soft crest of it and found that he could hardly descend without Brego stubbornly stomping his hind leg, Théodred began to hear it—the song his mother once sang to him, the same his father did for his cousins when they first arrived at Meduseld as frightened orphans. It was not long after when they discovered the sisters and brave Windfola.

Céolwin nursed Éowyn back to health. The girl was hardy, and though she required much rest, it was nothing compared to the wounds those of the King's éored had sustained in the battle the previous night. In the meantime, Éohild received reprimand after reprimand. She could hardly walk around Meduseld in the two weeks her sister recovered without having someone at least shake their head at her reprovingly.

Yes, she knew what might have happened if Théodred had never found them. Yes, she understood that they could have been easily killed had the curs been of a greater number. Yes, she knew more than anyone that what befell Éowyn was her doing. Her sister's, too, for agreeing to it, but Éohild understood that they were less angry with her for she had been the one injured and that was lesson enough.

Éomer embraced her tightly as soon as they met, and then, even at eighteen, rebuked her relentlessly and refused to speak with her until she began to think before 'reveling in her own stupidity.' _War is the province of men_ , did she not understand? Uncle Théoden punished her by forbidding her from leaving Meduseld until she learned her lesson. Still Éohild had already perfected the art of descending through their window and back to see Windfola, upon whom praise was showered in the form of wondrous hay.

Théodred was quite displeased as well, but was the first to overcome his initial shock. He had gone past Éowyn's injury and seen, as they intended, the result of their plan. The prince was impressed. He recommended them for further training, insisting his cousins had potential, no matter if they were women. Windfola, too. But Théodred could only intercede for so much with his father, he later explained to Éohild when Théoden had agreed — but only that his _younger_ niece would continue training. She had not understood at the time that Théodred meant it would break his father's heart to see his most beloved sister-daughter in battle, too.

Éomer gave an outright _no_. Or, as the case had been, _Out of the question_! But Éohild wanted it more than anything, knowing then the threat of those monsters on their people and understanding that with training, she could begin to face them with courage. Théoden took his son's word to heart more than any his advisors could give him. Despite the disapproval of some in Meduseld or the entirety of Edoras, Éohild began her training as a squire.

Years passed and the beauty of Éowyn became renown in all the land. Éohild felt envy stir in her heart, but she pushed it aside as best she could and poured herself into practice. After all, if Éowyn was the fair one, she would be the powerful one. It was only right. Unbeknownst even to her, Éohild had already rationalized it this way long before, when Éowyn finally woke after their expedition and asked what happened. Éohild, having already been informed by Théodred of her new status as a squire, answered only with an apology.

Soon, Éohild grew to the age of becoming a Rider. Éomer requested that she be placed in the King's éored with him, but their Uncle and cousin agreed that he would put too much effort into protecting her. Instead, Théodred took her under his wing, to which Éomer could only begrudgingly agree.

Which wasn’t to say that he did not insist on being there on the day of her induction into the Riders—or that Éohild herself did not find the prospect daunting, eager though she was to serve her people. 

She was training that morning. Clouds drifted overhead, casting shadows over what should have been a glorious day. After all, it was the culmination of the grueling work and training she had endured as a squire: the honor of becoming a Rider of the Mark. But how could it be a happy day? Théoden King had fallen ill and would not be attending the ceremony. The Eorlingas were a superstitious people, and so the unfortunate happenstance was like to be seen as an omen. 

Not a speck of doubt marred Éohild’s desire to become a Rider, but she was not yet so steadfast that the whispers of the women in the kingdom, wondering if the brewing sky did not foretell the harm that the King’s sister-daughter and her unruly belligerence would bring upon the Mark, did not weave themselves into her thoughts. 

So Éohild trained in an attempt to forget those whispers, footwork almost impeccable beneath the shining dance of her blade. It would have made an impressive sight had she not been practicing next to the stables, and had the sound of heavy hooves not called an abrupt halt to her flowing form. 

She whirled, sword at the ready, and met a tall stranger upon his horse. A war horse, she noted - one that would not be shamed upon coming before the horses of the Mark - but it was the man who caught her attention. Though he wore a cloak, the white tree that adorned his chestplate was unmistakable. What business did a Gondorian have in the Mark? His hair was dark like his horse’s mane, and his air bespoke a pride she thought only permissible in the son of a king. He was very handsome to her eyes, but what did that mean to a Rider? Suspicion filled her bearing as dignity did his, especially when he spoke.

His tone was diplomatic, but the shock did not escape his lifted brow as he dismounted. “Do you train in secret, my lady?”

Though she tried to resist it, Éohild felt herself squint. She knew herself to be skilled with the sword, but the ability to maintain a cool mask of indifference, so easily honed by her sister, would always be a failing of hers. “Not in secret, my lord,” she said, reminding him that though he must have been welcomed by the guards at the gate, he had yet to introduce himself. “Soon I will become a member of the Second Marshal’s éored.”

“A high honor indeed,” agreed the man, a small smile upon his mouth.

The man spoke his congratulations truly, but indignation and her already ringing worries fastened to Éohild’s ear a condescension that was not present. She bristled at this slight - from her fellowmen she was accustomed to it, but a stranger had no right to inflict it upon her. “You must be surprised,” she began, even as she finally lowered her sword, “because I am a woman.”

The man tilted his head in offhanded denial. Now it was amusement that filled his relaxed posture. “So you are.”

Naturally, Éohild took this as an affront. “Will you tell me, then, that to fight is folly for one such as I? That I will never stand as tall as the men of my would-be éored?”

“I have come here for the singular purpose of stabling my horse, if it please my lady,” said the man, now chuckling slightly, “but if I did? What then?”

Éohild disliked that his mirth was infectious. She could not but smile, knowing that he had said no such thing, though she stamped it down by turning up her nose. “Then I would have no recourse but to fight for my honor.”

She raised her sword to him once more, challenging him, but his wide eyes fell to a helpless, lopsided smile as she motioned to his sheath. Shaking his head, he led his horse aside and drew his own blade. “So you will.”

The sight of the stranger standing to his full height, weapon at the ready, eyeing her not as one would a young woman but as he would any other soldier gave a still foolhardy Éohild pause. The firmament remained dark, heavy with subdued tears, but to her mind a light seemed to shine upon her opponent. Instinctively, she knew him to be a captain of men, and undoubtedly, therefore, her better—but no kin of Théoden would retreat from a challenge she had issued herself. Neither did pride lend her the foresight to.

“Hah!” Without warning, Éohild lunged, striking upon him with the audacity of inexperience. He met her, of course, blow for blow. Their fight carried on, and though neither meant true harm, their blades sang in delight of this show of skill - not unlike the songs that would one day tell of this first meeting, though their subject would be something much greater than steel.

Soon, however, it passed Éohild’s notice that they never strayed from that particular stretch of land near the stable. She would advance, only for him to gain the upper hand and drive her back; and on the occasion that she thought he would back her into a corner and demand her surrender, he appeared to hesitate. The last time it occurred, she parried—and instead of pushing forward, lowered her weapon. The smile on his face (for he was smiling, she realized, as she had been) as he moved, ready to meet her again, faded as quickly as the momentum left his stance. 

Lowering his guard, but not yet completely for he expected a feint, he quirked another brow. “My lady?”

Her enjoyment of the spar had now entirely dissipated. In its place was his old acquaintance, and what would be his companion in years yet unseen - Éohild’s indignation. “You,” she accused him, “dishonor me.”

Comprehension filled his features. What she had meant was that he was holding back - that he had shown her but a sliver of his true skill in battle. “That is not my intent,” he swore, seeing no reason to deny it. For Éohild had been exact in her measure of him: he was a Captain of men, of the White Tower, at that, and he had wished to know her proficiency with the blade. “It is true that I have not fought with all my might, but it was not to dishonor you. It was to judge your worth in battle.”

 _Who are you to judge my worth?_ Éohild wished to ask. But seeing how much more capable he was, she suddenly desired his approval. She was silent, for once, and the _and?_ hung in the air between them.

Boromir of Gondor knew it. “With enough experience, I would be glad to ride alongside you, my lady,” he said, “though I hope such a day will never come.”

The flattery warmed her soldier’s heart, and his concern, her woman’s—the men who surrounded her knew better than to treat her with extraordinary care, after all, and so such worry from such a handsome stranger almost brought a flush to her fair face. But she knew better, and glanced away to school her features. With the precision of her arrows, for Riders were trained bowmen as well, she struck down the thought with finality.

When she gazed upon him again, he represented only the power she aspired to. It was then that her eyes wandered past the tree upon his chest and found a horn of much finer make than could be found in all the Mark. A thought struck her - or should have, if she could only remember the significance of such a horn, as told by her uncle’s stories. And it was beginning to dawn upon her that, for he was evidently a guest of the Mark, it was _her_ duty to welcome him and not his to introduce himself.

“Who—?”

“Éohild!” cried the familiar voice of her cousin. “Is this where you’ve been?” 

Théodred’s hurried footsteps approached them from behind her stranger, who turned and smiled. With a nod, he acknowledged the prince. 

“Boromir! I heard you had arrived,” said Théodred, inclining his head in turn. As he did, his eyes flickered between their drawn weapons, but only a cough of amusement prefaced his words. “I see that you have met my dear cousin.”

“Did you find her, cousin?”

Boromir had scarcely opened his mouth to speak when Éomer’s voice wandered in from behind them. Of a much different temperament than Théodred, and in fact much too similar to his youngest sister, he could not hide his wide eyes or the displeasure on his furrowed brow at the sight of what had clearly been a spar before their guest had even stabled his steed. “ _Éohild_ ,” he already began.

Éohild needed no scolding. The very acknowledgment, the introduction at last of the famed captain - _heir_ to the Stewardship of Gondor - had drained her face pallid.

“Éomer,” Boromir interrupted with a smile, “I came to see the soldiers joining Rohan’s muster this day and chanced to meet a very promising Rider.”

Éomer acknowledged their guest of honor with a bow, and then his eyes shifted to his sister with disdain. “She is not a Rider _yet,_ my lord.”

If the Captain’s repeated flattery had not returned the color to Éohild’s face, her brother’s words certainly did—only in anger, for the latter. She inhaled sharply, prepared to argue with him as siblings were wont, but Théodred headed it off with a laugh. “Indeed, not yet—for we are nearly late for the induction ceremony.”

“We are?” gasped Éohild. 

“We may be, if we tarry,” said Théodred, looking at no one but giving Éomer the moment. Wise enough to see the circumstances for what they were, Boromir was silent. 

“Very well,” murmured Éomer, the reprimand finally leaving him with a sigh. 

Éohild’s was one of relief as she sheathed her weapon. After Boromir did the same, excusing himself only briefly to properly bring his horse into the stables, Théodred smiled. Ever the peacemaker, he set either hand on the shoulders of his cousins. 

“Come along, everyone.”

Éomer squinted at Éohild, who pretended not to notice, but he relented at their cousin’s words. For Éohild, the sky remained heavy, and her uncle, ill, but even the most famed Captain of Gondor had seen her potential. She had been right not to doubt herself. With a smile, she followed them away.

* * *

"To your side!"

"Swing! Cross—ohh!"

Men draped in the livery of the Mark groaned, shook their heads in disappointment, and dispersed from the courtyard. An old man with a graying beard caught his breath, grinning in amusement at the young woman who remained. Like his, her golden hair was sloppily drawn back into a ponytail, but unlike him, she hardly appeared tired; only frustrated. She dropped her blade in surrender when the tip of his touched the base of her neck.

"You give your left arm too little credit, Éohild," said the man. "When any part of you becomes a crutch for another, both are rendered useless."

Éohild blew the stray hairs out of her face with a sigh. "I understand." Stiffly she glanced over her shoulder, and relaxed when she saw then that their spectators had thinned. "Have I truly disappointed?" she called out to the two men left. They had been at it for a few minutes already and a crowd had gathered; at least until her anticlimactic loss at that moment, thanks to a feint she had not trusted herself to come through with for fear of failure. She blamed her fellowmen; they had come to watch the old man, and their cheering and coaching had made her tense.

"You might have done better," laughed Gárwine, a comrade sharpening his sword. His slanted eyebrows made him look as though he pitied her more than he meant to humiliate, but his friends knew him too well to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Satisfactory," another, Baldred, kindly offered. His hair was tied for better concentration as he fletched arrows. Her closest friends in the éored who had been inducted in the same year, she and the two comprised a trio that once hated each other as squires, competing with one another for good favor, but who had come together in their first encounter with Orcs. They found then that they were much more suited to friendship than enmity.

"So you see, this old man still has quite a bit of fight left in him," announced he who had been entrusted with her recovery. His name was Erkenbrand, and in long years past he had served her Uncle in close friendship and knighthood. Now, upon Théodred's request, he counseled the muster at the Hornburg.

"There was never a time I doubted it," answered Éohild, picking up her sword and sheathing it with her right hand. Wiping the sweat from her face with the back of her fingers and with a wrinkle of her nose, she crouched down and fell to her posterior with a painful _thud_. She stretched her legs on the cold stone and shook out the tension in her right arm.

"How is it?" asked Erkenbrand, a trace of concern in his rumbling voice.

"Better," she said, touching it lightly without cringing. Her arm had been cut deeply by an enemy's sword in their most recent sortie with Orcs, leaving it useless while they fought on. Almost as soon as it ended, she and the other injured raced back to the Hornburg for proper healing, but it was taking her much more time than the average to recover. Erkenbrand said it was the sword tainted with malice, Théodred said it was simply that her wounds had always ever been abdominal and that she was not accustomed to this one.

In any case, the old man had experienced it long ago and agreed to aid her recovery with practice. "You are learning, at least," said Erkenbrand, sheathing his sword. "Better than when you first started."

Éohild reddened in embarrassment. She had been so frustrated on their first day that she had swung at him with all her might with her good arm, only to lose balance, reminiscent of her first days as a squire – and she would rather not remember those days. Wet behind the ears, they’d said she was the epitome of. _Ears_ as she was known then for short, and they had shown her no mercy despite her being a woman, or the King's sister-daughter. It was both glorious and humiliating.

"Yes, well—"

"Éohild?"

Erkenbrand smiled, bowing with ease, while Éohild rose to her feet with her good arm and emulated the old man. "Marshal," they both greeted.

Théodred dismissed their stances with a nod and watched his cousin dust herself off. "How goes the training?" he asked his counselor.

"Improving," said Erkenbrand, eyes wrinkling in amusement. "In a few days, we shall see her doleful temperament finally leave us."

"Ah, good to hear," laughed Théodred. "We all know how Éohild is in a mood."

Baldred and Gárwine, who had stayed to watch their friend, guffawed and slapped their knees if only to humiliate her further. "Have a care, Marshal," called Gárwine. "She may retaliate when the mood returns."

Éohild waved her hand dismissively despite the grin Théodred shot them. When Erkenbrand slipped away after another perfunctory bow, having grown tired despite his skill, she asked, "What can I do for you, Marshal?"

"Return to Edoras before me," said Théodred, playing the Marshal again. Before she could attempt to interrupt, he spoke, "Do not contest me, cousin. Éowyn will be glad of your arrival—and you know it is for the better."

Éohild shook her head. "I understand. Orc numbers are low and it is safer for me to travel."

Théodred narrowed his eyes. "Agreement? Are you truly Éohild, daughter of Éomund, or the work of a conjurer? I jest," he laughed at the curl of her lip, thumping her on the back like a man. With this, she was familiar. "At the break of dawn. Will you manage?"

Éohild closed a fist over her chest and inclined her head. "Of course, Marshal."

"Very good. Now, rest," he ordered, then turned to his Riders sitting on the sidelines. "Gárwine. Baldred. Because you see fit to giggle at Éohild's condition like young handmaidens, attend to her needs. Feed her, draw her a bath—anything she asks."

The two balked at the countenance in which he uttered the words—entirely serious. "Yes, my lord," Baldred bowed for them. Nodding in approval, Théodred walked away.

"Anything I ask, was it?" Éohild repeated thoughtfully.

"This always—always happens," Gárwine muttered, setting down his honing steel and sheathing his sword.

"Only to you, my friend," Baldred laughed. "The last time, I believe the sprain in my ankle caused you two such amusement that the Marshal asked you to become my serving lads for the evening."

" _Maiden_. One of us was a maiden, as I recall," corrected Éohild, eyeing Gárwine deviously.

"Never again," he warned, revealing the subtle sheen of his blade as he redrew it shortly. It glinted against the sunset, but Baldred only snorted it away.

"All right," sighed Éohild, raising her hands in surrender. "A mere bath, and some food, please."

Although they did care for her, her friends did no more than they often did; simply ask one of the serving women attending to the barracks to draw the prince's cousin a bath 'for her arm can scarcely move on its own,' was their excuse, and flanked her sides on their way to the mess hall in case she fell on her journey for nourishment. When both tasks were completed, Éohild summarily dismissed the two who flourished their arms as they bowed, humorously retreating backwards until they knocked over a rack of swords.

Éohild slept. The next morning went by in such a breeze that when she lifted her head to take in her surroundings, she was already sitting outside Edoras. Fleetfoot must have gone ahead to the city, for she sat before a shallow bank of the Snowbourn river, buds of simbelmynë drifting along its endless course.

She leaned forward to pick one when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Lowering her gaze to it, she felt a warmth bloom inside her belly - a strange sense of belonging that not even Meduseld could provide of late - and, knowing only that safety awaited her in that grip, rested her own hand upon it. But there was still the Snowbourn she wished to see, and she turned her gaze back upon the water—only to find that it had vanished. 

_Vanished_ was inaccurate. It was moreso that she was now so far from home, so high above the plains so beloved to her that her eyes could no longer find its shimmering surface. As though she were trapped in a tower, so removed from the land she loved that all she could do was stare into the darkness in the east, eyes fixed upon its turbulent skies. The hand on her shoulder had gone, for there was only death; and if only death remained, then there was only despair, and she could but scream...

Éohild opened her eyes to a bright light broken into fragments by black, imposing shadows. She gasped for air, clawing at her throat, for she could not breathe. Hands grabbed her shoulders and squeezed before pulling her into an embrace.

"Éohild! Awaken!"

Her vision cleared at the voice, eyes adjusting to the moonlight outside. When the arms released her, she saw Théodred, Leofred their healer – Bertana's husband – and five others of their éored who both grumbled and watched her with worry. Gárwine carried a torch, wiping his hands of the oil that had spilled in his haste, while Baldred winced at her side. "What happened, Éohild?"

"We thought you were—"

"Were what?" asked Éohild, voice rough as though she was a little girl again, shrieking at Éowyn before attacking each other. But that had not been her dream.

"Delivering," Théodred finished, sending the men a look of distaste. They muttered wearily amongst themselves, some bearing swords and others still rubbing their eyes. Baldred clapped her good shoulder for comfort before bowing to their Marshal and departing the room with the others. Leofred, having touched her forehead and finding nothing amiss, was permitted to leave as well.

"Delivering," Éohild mumbled after a beat, "a baby?"

"So you did not hear your own screams," whispered Théodred, tightly gripping her. He rocked her gently in his arms as though she were a child, and Éohild would have felt embarrassed if he had not done this for his cousins when they had first come to Edoras, one of her few memories left from her first five winters.

"What was it that made you weep so? Tell me, Éohild," said Théodred, relaxing his grip.

"A feeling of home," she recalled as she finally woke, "Of simbelmynë, and the Snowbourn. And..." _despair_ , she would have said, had her cousin not spoken.

"What?" Théodred smiled, letting her head nestle into the pillow again and brushing her hair up from her back so that her neck was not too warm. It was how she liked to sleep. "How could home have been a nightmare?"

"Because," she began, but she shook her head, closing her eyes. It had been a nightmare; an awfully vivid one, but a nightmare all the same. She was sorry to have woken the others for it. Tomorrow, though she dreaded it, she would apologize. "It was only a dream."

"Yes, it was," said Théodred, relief clear in his voice, and kissed her forehead. "Go to sleep. Long day yet tomorrow."

* * *

The Second Marshal of the Mark made rounds near the Hornburg, so Éohild was away for weeks at a time. Upon Éowyn's request and for Éomer's own peace of mind, she was always the Rider sent ahead to Edoras before her Marshal arrived to report to the King.

It aggravated Éohild at first, that she should remain in Edoras at times, but she grew into the role of watching the counselor Gríma Wormtongue with a wary eye. Wormtongue was a nickname the man had earned over the years. Éohild could not tell when it happened or if it was something she merely overlooked as a child, but her Uncle's advisor had turned from simply bug-eyed to leery as Éowyn grew past her teen years. And although Éowyn needed no protection from her, Éohild still took comfort in being around her sister whenever she stayed in Meduseld, and the two never split rooms despite Éohild's instatement as a Rider.

One early evening, not a fortnight since half the year had slipped away, Éowyn and Éohild stood outside the balcony of Meduseld overlooking Edoras. Théodred would be coming in from the west soon and Éohild was sent ahead to see to his arrangements, along with Éomer’s. For the past few weeks, sleep had been uneasy for her. She woke in the middle of some nights with a feeling of dread, almost as if she expected a knock on her door with news of death. Whose, she could not tell.

Only the night before had she remembered her dream—of home and the sense of it in a single hand, and inescapable despair from a tower in the heavens in the other. But it was only a nightmare, was it not? The light in the East gave all who knew of it pause, after all - even the brave Riders of the Mark. That afternoon, when she arrived at Edoras and looked upon the faces of their people, she knew that no nightmare could ever drive her to the petrified despair that had engulfed her in her dreams. It must only have been the kingdom's collective worry for their Uncle making her heart heavy.

From the time of her induction as a Rider, Théoden King had never truly healed from his sickness. Worsening over many years, his health dwindled to the point that he could no longer truly serve as First Marshal of the Mark. He was confined to his throne or his bed, and Céolwin could do little more for him than recommend broths and a change in lifestyle. It was now a year since his people had truly seen him outside of the golden hall.

"Uncle's condition can only worsen," sighed Éowyn, hair falling elegantly to her slender waist. She had grown only more melancholy when her sister became a Rider. The fire to join battle had not diminished, but she kept it deeper in her heart now, and outwardly was cold to those whose eyes inevitably lingered upon her. With Théodred, Éomer, and Éohild in service of the Eorlingas, care of the King as well as their people outside matters of war had fallen to her.

"But he is strong," said Éohild, tugging at the wisps of hair over her chest. Riders of the Mark did not wear their golden locks as long as the women, but she allowed hers to grow at least past her shoulders. Théodred and the rest of her comrades in the éored agreed laughingly, saying that any shorter and no man would think to court her out of fear.

If they hadn't yet. Éohild had never before been courted, no matter if she was constantly surrounded by men. Those of their éored were so akin to cousins for her that she did not wish for a partner out of any of them, in any case. Gárwine and Baldred, closest to her heart, were a testament to that.

"A lesser man would have succumbed to an illness like his. Though," she added grimly, "that snake is not at all an aid. I wish Théodred would banish him for good."

"Uncle depends on his word. More so than cousin's, now," said Éowyn, making a face unbecoming of a Lady of her stature. Only to each other did they speak of these things. Some women in the village constantly drew conversation to the leery-eyed man, especially with Éowyn, but the sisters had become adept enough at deflecting their attempts to turn them into fodder.

Éohild snorted in laughter at her unlikely visage, cupping her mouth only when Éowyn blinked at her in slight shock. Men were sometimes a terrible influence, though Éohild always tried to act the Lady when in Edoras or in a dress, if only to avoid complaints from the other women.

Éowyn overlooked it to glance at an unknown rider coming up to the gate far ahead and below. "Look," she held her sister's hand. "Who is that?"

Not an enemy, presumed Éohild, for the knights at the gate gladly opened it for him. His features grew more familiar as he ascended the hill, the confidence of a leader clear in his posture. Robust with brown hair cropped at the collar, the man bore on his tunic the White Tree of Minas Tirith and the pride of Men in his eyes.

Éowyn met him at the foot of the stairs with a curtsy. The man dismounted and bowed. "Lord Boromir of Gondor," she greeted him with a smile. "The halls of Meduseld have not seen you in years."

"Is it you, Lady Éowyn?" he asked, his serious countenance breaking into a grin. "You have not at all changed."

"Except grown in beauty and splendor," added Éohild, joining them.

"Lady Éohild!" Boromir laughed pleasantly, his eyes wandering her face as they exchanged courtesies, "Do you know me so well?"

"Only my sister."

Éowyn shook her head. She disliked it whenever she spoke of beauty Éohild did not believe she herself possessed. No matter that it was an utterly ridiculous notion, or that Éohild feigned a disregard for the subject; Éowyn saw through her easily. Still, she asked, "What is the manner of your visit, my lord?"

Boromir's expression turned stately once more as his eyes drifted to the doors of the golden hall. "I have come to pay a call to King Théoden."

"He remains ill," Éowyn replied, regretfully.

"I am sorry to hear it," Boromir offered. "Are Théodred and Éomer in the city?"

"The Marshals are away with their éored, my lord," Éohild answered. "Éomer in the east and Théodred in the west."

"I see." Disappointment glanced the Captain-General's face, and then hope. "Very well. I would tell you both what I shall ask of them, in any case."

"Let us not discuss it in the cold eve. Please, come into Meduseld, Lord Boromir," said Éowyn. "We shan't let your journey come to waste. The King will surely see you, though he is nearly overcome by his illness.” After a pause, she added, “Forgive him if he receives you in a manner less than you deserve. He depends heavily on his counselor."

"Counselor?" asked Boromir, shrugging and readjusting his belongings. "Did he not have many?"

"They left one by one and never returned," said Éohild, as though she were telling a frightening tale. "Their disappearance remains a mystery to us all. Save for the Wormtongue."

Speaking of the "traitorous" counselors, according to Gríma, would only worsen the King's affliction. Éowyn hardly believed it herself, for those advisors had been of the King's own éored and their father's friends as well, but Gríma rather liked the sound of his own voice and reprimanded whoever thought to oppose him. "Sister, will you take Lord Boromir's steed to the stables? We shall meet you inside."

"It would be my pleasure," Éohild nodded at their guest before attending to his mount, taking the reins from him. "Hello again, my lord,” she said to the horse, gently stroking his mane as she met his gaze. “You will get on gloriously with Fleetfoot and Windfola.”

Boromir watched the Rider coo at his horse and was surprised to find his steed with his eyes half-closed, ears relaxed. He was no horse-lord, but he certainly knew _his_ horse - a proud and dignified thing just like his master - and so the easy trust Éohild garnered surprised him. But he supposed this could be true of any Rider of Rohan, and watched his faithful friend trot away to the stables with her.

As for the horses of Mark, Windfola had remained with Éowyn while Fleetfoot, a young, chestnut horse, became Éohild's after their first Orc encounter. The latter, trained by the Rider herself from foalhood, grew to be strong and fast in their days training together with the Riders. Boromir's horse met their pride head on and it was clear as soon as the three met eyes that Fleetfoot and Windfola understood—they were horses of the Riddermark, while Boromir's steed had seen more battles and so commanded respect as well. As predicted, they got along famously.

Éohild hurried to Meduseld, where Háma, loyal knight and door ward, informed her that her sister and their guest were with the King. And Gríma, of course. She heard his voice as soon as she entered the hall.

"And what business have you riding through the Mark, Lord Boromir?" the advisor spat out the name.

Éohild turned her head away from the sight of her Uncle's chief counselor. Sole counselor, now. His hair was oily and his pasty white skin was almost unsightly. And why wouldn't it be so? He hardly ever left the golden hall and wore heaps of that dark clothing over himself. Éohild didn't remember him like this when he first came into the King's service.

Boromir, having knelt before the King of the Mark, raised his head and stood to address the counselor. "I journeyed from my city to meet a friend in the North, and thought to visit those in the Mark. I have not seen the golden hall in many a year."

"What manner of friend? Has not the North long been abandoned?" Gríma asked with obvious suspicion. "We will suffer no secrecy in these halls, my lord."

Boromir frowned. The counselor had addressed him with something akin to mockery, but Éowyn stepped between them to deflect Gríma's insult. "My lord," she said, looking only at Théoden, "Lord Boromir is fatigued from his journey. He must rest."

Éohild shuddered from the shadows. She preferred to stay out of Gríma's view; he had disliked her ever since she became a Rider. Even whence she stood, she could see the advisor take in hungrily the sight of her sister. It was enough to make Éohild ill herself.

"Very well," Gríma acquiesced.

Éowyn always had guest chambers prepared in case visitors arrived, though it was a rare occasion since Théoden King's health started to fail. She was a wondrous lady of the golden hall this way, something Éohild knew she could never become. With years of training, perhaps. Certainly more than what it took to turn her into a worthy Rider.

Éohild met Éowyn and Boromir on their way to the latter's quarters. He was quiet, and it ate away at her to know whether it was out of deep thought or disapproval. While Lord Boromir had always been friendly, a welcome guest to her cousin and Uncle before his sickness struck, and a patient one when she had once challenged him years ago, it was long since she had seen him last. Once, he had congratulated her, but his opinion of her now, after all these years, was an entirely different matter. 

Some of even their éored and her brother's still found her odd, so she had learned long ago to watch her actions and lose as little approval of men as she could help. Not always her words, perhaps - in fact, women of the household said her remarks had retained the audacity of men from her childhood, for thoughts often slipped where a lady would have simply pursed her lips - but any sign of weakness was no longer a thing permissible outside time spent alone with her thoughts. Ever she reminded herself that she might lose her position with a single error. Last night's screaming debacle, she reminded herself, was something she could not repeat again. 

"Our apologies once more for the cautious manner in which you were received," she said to him instead. Éowyn nearly balked in surprise, shooting Éohild a curious look, but, truly the lady, allowed her sister to carry on. "Gríma is not so artful at concealing his discomfort."

"Since you speak of it, my lady," replied Boromir, "There is an oppressive air about Edoras that was absent in my last visit. Is it that counselor?"

"Yes," Éohild wrinkled her nose. "And the King's malady. It has only proven more difficult these past years."

"But," Éowyn interrupted, signaling the other woman with a shake of her head, "let us not dampen your spirits with our troubles, my lord."

"It is no trouble. But if the lady wishes not to discuss it, then…"

Éohild stopped before his door and asked, since he was willing to change the subject, "Lord Boromir, what was it you wished to ask the King? I must commend your prudence."

"I knew at once this Gríma could not be trusted." Pulling back, Boromir searched the hall for signs of life. It was empty for the time being. He spoke in a murmur, "Several nights ago, my brother and I dreamt of…" He paused, measuring his words. "Imladris; Rivendell, the dwelling of Elrond Half-elven. Simply put, my father believes the reason for this is that the Elves have come upon a weapon. One that will shift the tides of war."

"Truly?" asked Éowyn.

Boromir nodded. "I go to seek answers. Éomer or Théodred I thought an ideal companion, for the Northern lands have been deserted for too long. But I see now that with the King's illness, fulfilling this request is impractical."

"Indeed," Éowyn replied regretfully, making a subtle motion toward Éohild. Her younger sister silently opened the door for her. "Dinner will be brought to you soon, my lord."

"Thank you, my lady," said Boromir, gratefully.

"You are fortunate, Lord Boromir," said Éohild, when Éowyn departed to issue orders for their visitor's meal. "Every month or so, Théodred and Éomer come home to report to the King. They arrive tomorrow. The Second Marshal sent me here beforehand to prepare for their arrival."

Watching her by the doorway, Boromir smiled. "That is good news. Thank you, my lady."

Éohild nodded. "Have a good evening, my lord," she said, and closed his door as she left. As she made her way to her room, she was halted by Leófe. The woman was a healer now in her own right, but remained in the King's household in Céolwin's stead while the older woman tended to others in the city.

Joined by two young serving women carrying food and wine, Leófe gave a small curtsy. "Milady."

"Hello, Leófe," smiled Éohild. She eyed the roasted meat with longing. Recently, her appetite had weakened to give way to her feeling of dread, but that had momentarily dissipated upon their guest’s arrival. "For Lord Boromir, I presume?"

"Yes, milady," said Erna, a serving girl of eighteen who knew the sisters well. She had been chosen to serve at Meduseld since childhood and had always easily been more casual in her manner toward the King's sister-daughters. It was this familiarity that allowed Erna to look like she had just heard the funniest thing from her friend, standing shyly behind Leófe. 

Catching the infectious giggle that slipped from Willa's throat, Éohild turned at her curiously, wearing an uncertain smile. "What is it?"

"Forgive us, milady," said Erna, lowering her head. "Willa thinks our new guest is the handsomest southern lord she has ever seen."

"He is the only southern lord you have ever seen," said Leófe, shaking her head at the younger women as though she had never gossiped in her life.

"Has he - has he come to ask for Lady Éowyn's hand, milady?" asked Willa, bravely. She had come to serve later and had always been somewhat shy. This was their first conversation, though it was good to know the girl could speak.

"Not at all," Éohild laughed, though her mirth dampened at the thought that Gríma might be listening. Part of her thought that perhaps she should say so, if only to incense the man, though it would certainly deteriorate his already poor treatment of their honored guest.

"It would be a fitting marriage, don't you think?" asked Erna. "Lord Boromir is a renowned warrior, even in the Mark; heir to the Steward of Gondor! And the Lady is beloved of her people."

"Lady Éohild, you - why, you are also a sister-daughter of the King. Perhaps he has come for your hand...?" Willa wildly speculated. "Oh, forgive me," she blushed, "but you must rare for the fires of battle, not for a man's heart!"

" _No one_ is to be wed," Éohild sighed, ignoring the part of her that gave it some thought as she looked to Leófe for help. She would have taken Willa’s statement as a personal affront and a presumption at familiarity if they were not so young and she had not, in her adolescent years, gossiped about others in the éored with Gárwine and Baldred, too. Really, they still did.

"Girls," scolded the healer, "Cease this pestering of the lady. She will tell us," said Leófe, smiling knowingly, "whatever she wills."

Éohild stared at Leófe in disbelief before giving a chuckle in surrender. Once known as the castle gossip, Leófe had quickly grown into a matronly woman at just twenty-seven when her twin brother died of a terrible illness. She preferred now propriety over the excitement of rumors, but it gladdened Éohild to know that the woman could enjoy one on occasion, though it be at her expense. "You have not changed, Healer, despite your loquacity. Lord Boromir will take his leave tomorrow, likely after he has spoken with the Marshals. His is merely a friendly visit, for he journeys North."

"Whyever would he go North? There is nothing there but old fortresses and Dunlendings!" Erna gave a horrified gasp.

"I shall say no more," declared Éohild, stepping aside and nodding at the women to pass.

"And you are taciturn as ever, keeping secrets from the household," sighed Leófe, then smirked. "It seems my _loquacity_ has fulfilled its duty."

Éohild bowed in resignation, unable to help her smile for the oft solemn healer. "As it does for all women.”

* * *

Éowyn was still asleep when she awoke the next morning. Éomer and Théodred would arrive soon, so Éohild dressed into her breeches, ready to meet them when they returned. But first came breakfast. To her joyful surprise, the two were already waiting in the dining hall, chatting animatedly with Lord Boromir.

"Marshals," she bowed formally when she stood before them. "Lord Boromir."

Théodred was the first to dismiss her with a smile, but it was Éomer who came to her side at once for an embrace. "Good morning, sister." He eyed her left arm with some displeasure but smiled still. They had not seen one another for many weeks.

"Good morning," she greeted them all, nodding gratefully at Éomer for keeping silent about her injury. Any other time and he would have shown a little too much concern, enough to embarrass her before their guest. Boromir rose politely in greeting before taking his seat again. "When did you return?" asked Éohild, failing to conceal her excitement. "I did not hear you come."

"We arrived before dawn," answered Théodred, handing her a plate as she took a seat beside Boromir, who shifted to give her room. The two Marshals were in constant correspondence and had thought to come later that evening, but they had often traveled during the day for the past months and feared that Orc scouts might expect the same. "Windfola and Fleetfoot were quite unsettled, though Lord Boromir's horse attempted to calm them. Imagine, a Gondorian horse tending to one of the Mark!"

"Imagine our surprise when you and Éowyn were still asleep. Soundly," Éomer grinned, elbowing Théodred as he ate. The prince chuckled in amusement. It had turned into an ongoing jest between the two Marshals, how Windfola was so bonded with the sisters that his mood reflected theirs—including the loud snoring and shifting temperaments.

Something about horses being finely attuned to the moods of women. Éohild thought it held some validity despite the snickers of their brother and cousin, but Windfola and Éowyn had always felt closer. He was hers first, after all. Fleetfoot's moods at times mirrored hers, but he was tame, more often than not, a quiet watcher whose spirit matched Théodred's quiet confidence more closely. Boromir, hardly comprehending the joke and not nearly close enough with its subject to laugh without causing offense, only smiled along.

"Dealing with Gríma grates on one's nerves. Lord Boromir can attest to that," said Éohild. Théodred and Éomer glanced at him to ask if it were true, and the Gondorian captain affirmed it grimly. "It is a wonder sister manages it so well. Perhaps it was her unease Windfola understood."

The Marshals exchanged frowns. "You would be wise to keep silent, Éohild," said her brother, amusement dissipating into caution. "You know he likes to skulk around the kitchens while Uncle is in bed."

"Concocting his poisons, no doubt," muttered Éohild.

"Éohild!" scolded Théodred. Éohild pursed her lips in embarrassment. When the reprimand came from her cousin, she listened. The prince turned to Boromir with apology in his eyes, though it was Éomer who said, "Forgive my sister. Too oft she speaks her mind in trusted company."

Boromir shook his head, brushing it off. "I am glad to be counted in such company. Given that the last I saw of the lady was her induction into your éored, Théodred."

Though Éohild winced at the reminder of her poor behavior as a host to the Captain-General in years past, she was pleased to see it succeed in distracting the prince from her transgression. Théodred agreed, "You have not visited in an age, my friend, nor written."

"Ever are we beset by Mordor and its allies," explained Boromir, though he sounded remorseful. "Ah, but we have recently reclaimed Osgiliath!"

Éomer took a gulp of water and nodded. "That is good news! And yet you leave for the North?"

"A dream of Imladris and deeper matters shared by two brothers is one that cannot be overlooked. Surely there are answers in the house of Lord Elrond." Éohild's ears perked at the mention of his quest. She had contemplated his words the night previous, wondering if her own dream held some meaning. But it said nothing specific, unlike their guest's _Imladris_ ; again she told herself it could only be her own nerves. Boromir added, "I had hoped one of you might join me, but I see now that I must go alone."

"You need not go alone, my friend," said Théodred, brows furrowed in thought. He had heard tell of the elves, most by Gandalf when the wizard visited the Golden Hall in their earlier years.

Boromir's gaze brightened considerably, as though a weight on his shoulders unnoticed till then was lifted. "One of you will join me, then?"

"We cannot," said the prince with regret. "I have the Hornburg to attend to. But," he cast a sidelong glance at his cousins, "I might spare you one of my men. Éomer and I cannot accompany you for our duties bind us to the Mark, but Éohild will make for a perfect companion," Théodred explained earnestly. "A skilled hunter if I ever saw one, a Rider worthy of representing her people, and kin to my father, at that."

"She must stay here with Éowyn." Éomer's tone was almost exactly like his uncle's had been when the King was still sprightly – stern and adamant.

"Gamling is here," said Théodred, heedless of his cousin's apparent ire if only for the idea that had taken root in his mind. "And Éowyn needs no protection! She can ride as well as any man and wield sword and spear. I have seen to it."

Taking a sip of water, Éohild prepared to interject. She had never truly questioned her cousin's orders, much less her Marshal's, but this was a request she had not foreseen in the slightest. "My lord, my oath—it was to protect the Mark?"

Théodred nodded, having expected the defense. "Éohild, you can fight, ride, and you have no éored of your own to lead. Who better to send? Something tells me there is more to this dream than mere whispers of the night, and if its message is one a Man of Gondor must hear, then so shall a Rider of the Mark. You told me yourself that an ominous air has pervaded your mood of late despite the lack of an apparent threat, though the rest of us feel no inkling. Perhaps it is this answer you are meant to know, to allay our dread; for your worries are _ours_. And you will remain in the service of your kingdom on this venture; do not forget it."

Éohild took a deep breath, then rose and inclined her head in acquiescence. Leaving Théodred, her friends and family was the last thing she wished to do, but he was her prince, and he had never led his men astray. "By your leave, Marshal."

"You are welcome to join me, my lady," said Boromir, having seen the sincerity in Théodred's eyes and hers. Even then, he had another friend to consider. "But I would not ask of Rohan what she could not bear to lose."

"Théodred," Éomer shot the man a meaningful expression that almost pleaded—not as another Marshal but as a cousin and as a brother. 

Finally rising from the pools of deep thought, of a higher sense that felt now beyond his reach, the prince met his cousin’s eyes in shock; he had forgotten to consider Éomer's thoughts on the matter. Théodred sighed for the retraction of his words rather than his insensitivity. "I – suppose I cannot send you away so carelessly. I am afraid Éomer would never forgive me." The words _not again_ hung in the air.

Éomer and Éohild met gazes, the former bearing concerned fury and the latter with regret. Théodred's words had inspired her. It was true that her recent fear was baseless, that she herself knew not what she feared, but Elves were said to know more than Men would ever dream. Her curiosity, if nothing else, called her to this strange venture. And she was ever dutiful.

Watching them, Boromir remembered how sour the Third Marshal had been when Éohild first earned the title of Rider. He could not judge Éomer for the brotherly devotion which did not appear to have diminished over the years—it was, after all, the same reason he was here. As for Éohild, he would not ask a woman to draw another’s blood, but he knew better than anyone that only a fool would refuse another sword, spear, or bow arm. Had friendship not bound him to silence, he would have gladly taken up the offer she presented.

The tension was cut by steps coming across the dining hall. It could not be a serving maiden, for they were taught to carry their feet as lightly as a breeze. Gríma Wormtongue passed the dining hall without so much as a narrowing at the corner of his eyes.

The four exchanged glances. "He must have heard us," frowned Théodred.

"He always looks upon hearing the voice of a woman, hoping it is Éowyn," agreed Éohild. Sighing, she rose from her seat and pushed away her plate. The mere glimpse of him had torn her appetite to shreds. "I will go to Fleetfoot while Leófe gets the King ready."

She left without a second glance. Éomer would never agree with her departure, she knew. He had only just settled with Éohild joining their cousin's éored, but his worries were hardly her fault. She had proven herself a warrior. She was the king's niece, a Rider of the Mark, and Lord Boromir was Heir to the Ruling Steward of Gondor, bearing numerous titles and honors. If Théodred and Éomer could not leave their posts, it was true that she would perhaps make the next best companion. 

Lord Boromir said something about a weapon of the Enemy, the light in the East that for so long had ordered the theft of their beautiful black horses, and so she was certain this quest would change not only the fate of Gondor but of the Mark as well. One of their own should hear Lord Elrond's answer, yet she agreed with her brother in that she would rather not leave for lands unknown in order to serve their home.

Now a great brown horse, Fleetfoot was calm when Éohild entered the stables, as was Windfola. Fleetfoot met his Rider with a friendly nod, ears tilting forward. She brushed his hair, a calming exercise for them both, for minutes before she spoke again.

"Cousin insists you would not settle this morning, my dear," said Éohild, patting Windfola. "Was something the matter?" Windfola nickered softly. Fleetfoot appeared to agree with a shake of his head. "Whatever it is, Fleetfoot and I set out to rejoin the éored. But do you think we would be put to better use discovering what is in Rivendell?" Briefly, she glanced to Lord Boromir’s steed. “What do you think, my lord?”

"Lady Éohild?" a meek voice flitted in from the entrance. A young squire poised in a bow. Bertana's boy of twelve.

The Rider raised her head at the interruption. "Yes?"

"The King summons you, my lady.”

"I will come. Thank you, Brun." Returning them, she bade the horses goodbye and received nudges in return. Éohild took her time making for Meduseld. If the King – or Gríma – truly wanted anything, Éomer and Théodred were certain to take the floor first. Éomer had just finished his report when she arrived, bowing to the King while Éohild took her place behind the two Marshals.

"Ah, Lady Éohild." She refrained from scowling at the advisor. "There was something our King wished to ask of you."

Éohild couldn't help the slight parting of her lips in awe. The King had not addressed her since he had first fallen ill. "Yes, my liege?" she asked, eagerly stepping forward and falling to one knee.

He did not even look at her. Gríma continued to drawl. "You are to accompany our esteemed guest to his destination. It seems he is in need of aid, and the Mark gladly gives it to her allies. At once."

Having woken and panicked while the others were at breakfast, Éowyn appeared startled, looking to the others in confusion. Éomer moved to protest, but Théodred raised a hand to stop him. Gríma smirked at this collective bewilderment, and Éohild would have looked away from him in disgust had the eye contact not been a silent show of domination. 

Boromir cleared his throat.

"My lord," he said, "I would not ask of Lady Éohild her life, if the King believes such a journey would risk it. Or perhaps upon the word of his beloved son and dear nephew?"

"Nonsense," Gríma snapped, then smiled scornfully. "It is no trouble, my lord. Lady Éohild would be honored to accompany a man of such great renown. And in any case, was it not a duty she took upon herself, risking her life for lord and land, when she brazenly insisted upon becoming a Rider?"

Théodred knelt before the King on behalf of Éomer, who called upon all his discipline in that moment to resist his heart’s call to strike down the counselor before them. "My lord. _Father,_ ” pleaded the prince. “Are you certain?"

As expected, Théoden King said nothing. Gríma smiled. "Go with the pride of the Mark," he said, waving his arm at Éohild as if it would grant him a more stately look, but his words were hollow and he looked ever the pretender.

Éohild spared not a moment before she bowed. "I will do as my lord wishes. Fleetfoot and I depart with Lord Boromir."

"Oh, no." Gríma shook his head. "Take Gram."

"You cannot allow her to take a foal," Éowyn finally interjected, unable to help but step forward. 

Their brother, too, worked to breathe slowly, speaking with forced diplomacy. "He will fail her in battle,” he said. “He is yet to be trained - meant for a _squire_."

"I must agree," said Théodred. Éohild was silent. The fact of her departure had stunned her enough; now she was to take a _foal_ into the northern wildlands?

Gríma sighed, kneeling before the king and muttering under his breath. Théoden nodded, mouth moving, but his words were only for his counselor. The slimy man stood, eyes landing on Éowyn before they flitted disdainfully at Éohild, tutting with disappointment. "Lady Éohild, did you not garner sufficient experience from training your _horse_?"

"I did, of course," Éohild’s pride forced her to answer. Boromir and Éowyn had resigned to watching the exchange, though she looked to them as if to seek answers. In truth she feared embarrassing herself before their guest. She already knew the point to which this line of questioning would lead, but she had no idea how not to fall into the trap. "But Fleetfoot is my steed. The squire meant to become Gram’s Rider must grow with him."

"Such foolish notions," Gríma groused, as though the very sight of her opening her mouth gave him a headache. Perhaps it did. "Your uncle is unhappy with your protests. You serve the kingdom on two ends: raising a great war horse and protecting a _friend_ of the Mark. Will you continue to deny him?"

"I—no," she murmured, inclining her head. "I will take Gram on the journey... for my liege wishes it."

With nothing else to discuss, Gríma dismissed them with a pleased smirk. Éowyn accompanied Boromir down the hall to show him the rations and other equipment they had prepared for him as their guest, but Éohild and Théodred followed Éomer, who had stalked out of Meduseld as soon as was politely able.

"Éomer," Théodred called, racing down the steps after him.

Éohild joined him. "Éomer, please."

The Third Marshal whirled at his sister when they were out of sight, far enough from the door and out of earshot of anyone else. "Had you rejected the idea sooner… When is it _enough_ , Éohild?" he asked softly. "You were not content without a sword and spear, and now you are not content in the Riddermark. Why must you always speak? Why is your defiance ever rewarded?"

Éohild gawped at him. "How was I to know Gríma would hear us?"

"Éomer! Blame the fruit of my thought and the prying of a snake," said the prince in defense of his youngest cousin. "Éohild was only ever obedient."

"Is she?" Éomer accused, and all three Riders knew of which event he still spoke, one whose result had always been a blemish on his relationship with both his cousin and his sister. After his initial outrage at Théodred, Éomer had always blamed Éohild for becoming a Rider. Since he could not control their cousin’s decision, it was her persistence in pursuing instatement, despite his attempts at dissuasion, to which he directed his resentment.

When Éohild kept her eyes downcast, the Third Marshal relented with a glance away. It could never truly mar the brotherly love he bore for her, but that did not stop his worried anger. "We know not where Boromir will pass to reach this Rivendell. This is too much more than a few hills and a night alone. A great warrior he may be, but you will have neither of us at your side."

"She will be safe," insisted Théodred. "Boromir is a fierce warrior and an even better friend. I can entrust her to no better Gondorian. To no better Man." When Éomer only sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, the prince squeezed Éohild's shoulder. "You have quite a journey ahead of you, cousin. Go and prepare."

Éohild obeyed, hardly in the mood for another argument, though she passed by Fleetfoot to say goodbye. Windfola stomped his foot as if in protest, but her own horse only nickered, nearing his nose to her face in sorrowful acceptance.

Éowyn sat quietly in their room when Éohild climbed in through the window. Her sister was fixing the little of her clothes she could bring without hampering a young horse like Gram. 

It was easy for Éohild to tell when her sister was upset. Her shoulders were slumped, her mouth tilted slightly downwards, and the air was thick with her low mood. Exactly as she’d looked when she first discovered Éohild was to become a squire while she would not.

Éohild's feet landed on the floor with a _thud_. "Is Lord Boromir ready?"

Éowyn looked up, hardly surprised at her entrance. "Is Éomer?"

"He has only acted this way once," Éohild mumbled. Her older siblings were not very different at all. "Will you talk to him, Éowyn? He loves you best. He always listens to you."

"Only because I have not defied all his wishes," scoffed Éowyn. "If brother listened to me, I would be riding with you along the Westmark."

"I do not mean _that_ ," Éohild muttered. “You are a soothing presence to him."

Éowyn shook her head, putting a hand over her sister's. "And you are fond of aggravating him at every turn."

"You would have, too, given the chance!" Éohild frowned defensively.

Éowyn paused. "Do you think Théodred will permit me to join his éored in your absence?"

"I… do not know…" Éohild glanced uneasily at the door.

Éowyn removed her hand angrily. "Even you would not let me fight! Do you not understand? Gríma's purpose for allowing you this venture is to set us apart. Éomer will blame cousin for letting you go. You will be out of his way, and I will be left alone. With _him_."

"That is possible," Éohild acquiesced, though she knew Éowyn had likely adjudged the truth. "But you must understand. I would want nothing more than to fight at your side" – that was a lie, she wanted Éowyn at Edoras where she was safe, no matter how loud the bells of hypocrisy chimed at that – "but someone must remain with Uncle."

"Uncle…" Éowyn sighed. Conceded. Patiently, she rose. "I will speak with Éomer."

"Oh, thank you, sister!" exclaimed Éohild, kissing her on the cheek. Éowyn replied with a brief smile before setting out. Guilt assailed Éohild, telling her that Éowyn had as much right as her to go on the journey – it told her many things since they returned from those hills – but Gríma would never allow Éowyn to go. Éohild shuddered in disgust and grew in admiration for her sister. This was a rare moment when she was grateful it was Éowyn who was prettier and more delicate-looking despite her strength.

When Éowyn did not return swiftly, Éohild stepped out of her room carrying her pack for the journey. She passed by a few serving women of Meduseld, who came to ask if the news of her sudden departure were true. She saw little reason in denying it. They left her soon enough when Wynne came looking for them, especially Erna who was her best assistant, and Éohild promised her that when she returned, she would rate the pulchritude of Northern men.

Down the connecting hall to the left she spotted Gríma scurrying away after a conversation with Lord Boromir outside his guest chamber. The Gondorian captain watched Gríma leave with a blank expression. Éohild approached only when the King's counselor was out of sight.

"He spoke with you," said the Rider, grimacing. "Did he attempt to feed you lies—?" Éohild cut herself off with a cough as she remembered the words of her Marshals earlier. Lord Boromir was a great man; perhaps he found these insults to the King's counselor petty.

"This Gríma is pleasant when he wishes. Not at all like you describe; I have met many of the sort," said Boromir, not offended by what would have been her brashness. It was somewhat objectionable, especially from a woman, but she was not the first of her kind. "No, he sought to learn more of our journey out of _concern_ for you. I gave him nothing; I trust the counsel of my friends."

"Thank you," said Éohild, resisting the urge to roll her eyes when he mentioned Gríma's concern. "For propriety's sake, the Second Marshal will not tell you, but Gríma's greater knowledge only serves as a detriment to us all."

Éowyn came down the hall, shaking her head remorsefully at Éohild. She had failed. Yet she beckoned to them both, that they might prepare their horses for departure. Éomer was at the base of Meduseld with Théodred. Their Riders were waiting by the gate.

"Brother," Éohild tried again, slowly approaching Éomer.

"Perhaps you are too young to understand," he said, setting his hands on both her shoulders. "But this journey would mean nothing if it cost your life."

"It will, if we find a way to defeat the Enemy," she murmured, but not loudly enough to sound like true defiance. Instead Éohild promised, "I _will_ return, brother.”

"I will pray the same," was all he could offer before drawing her into a tight embrace. Her brother's scent and the comfort of his arms woke Éohild to the reality of the distance that would soon stretch between them. Even to Fleetfoot and the women of Meduseld she had not been able to say the long goodbyes she desired; simply an oath that she would not perish. When they parted, Éomer did not miss the gleam of damp regret in her eyes. Towards him they were often borne out of frustration from their arguments, but this was nostalgia for things not even yet lost. He felt the same, for some unfathomable reason, but stood strong for them both. 

"Be brave, sister. You are a Rider of the Mark."

Éohild nodded, blinking away her sorrow, and helped Éomer mount Firefoot with the façade of formality but truly for the sake of holding his hands a last time as they clasped the reins together. Wishing Théodred and Boromir safe journeys and having already bidden farewell to Éowyn, the Third Marshal rode out to meet his men.

"Tell the éored I gave a tearful goodbye," Éohild asked of her cousin, when she turned to her Marshal. "And that I cannot wait to return to the Hornburg."

"Baldred and Gárwine may return your tears. Shall I weep with them?" Pleased with the exchanged peace between his cousins, Théodred wrapped his arms around her as well. "You will be missed, Éohild. Stay safe." And loudly, "Protect Boromir if you can."

Sensing a lighter mood in which he could speak, Boromir chuckled. "I shall try not to be a burden."

"Just as well, Éohild, hmm?" Théodred winked at her as he pulled away. "And farewell, dear Éowyn. To you we entrust the city," he said, planting a kiss on his cousin's forehead, and pulled himself to Brego's saddle after clasping shoulders with Boromir. "Return to us with good tidings."

"Farewell!" Éowyn and Éohild called after his retreating figure. Théodred turned and waved, granting them a laugh the sisters would wish they remembered more clearly a year from that moment.

As Boromir took to his own horse, Éowyn embraced Éohild. "There will be talk of this," she whispered, glancing briefly at the Captain.

Éohild shook her head. "Better you hear it than I, who haven't the patience to remain silent."

"If only the threat of my blade could sever the wagging tongues of women. Although men are not so different," Éowyn murmured humorously. She smiled dotingly upon her sister. "I will miss you dearly."

"You have done well without me in the past. Perhaps even better," Éohild said thoughtfully. Éowyn only shook her head.

When they parted, Boromir rode closer to them and inclined his head. "It was an honor to be a guest in Meduseld, my lady.”

"And we would have you again, my lord," replied Éowyn, politely offering him her hand.

Boromir grinned, bending to plant a kiss on her knuckles. "I await the day with ardent hope."

Éohild withheld an eyeroll at the exchange. She never performed quite as well as her brother and sister when it came to charming repartee such as this. She opted instead to climb Gram, a dark young horse who appeared excited to go on his first long journey, if he understood the task.

"Farewell, sister," bade Éowyn, returning to her place at the steps of Meduseld. "Return to us with good tidings."

"I shall," said Éohild, blowing her a kiss goodbye. Éowyn laughed only until they turned for the gates.

Boromir and Éohild rode out of Edoras at a regular pace. The latter rider glanced back just as the sun met the roof of Meduseld, and the flash of gold blinded her. When she recovered, they were already too far off to see Éowyn watching them go. Éohild bore it heavily in her heart. It made her departure feel almost final; she always looked back until Éowyn disappeared from sight, too small for her golden hair to be distinguished amidst the glory of their home. Not now.

It was fate, perhaps. Worse things would come than missing her sister yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a review and let us know what you think. I love writing this story, but I would definitely be spurred on to write more and update faster by being able to interact with readers, or at least to be able to read what you think! :)


	3. Northward

Éohild rode side-by-side with Boromir, who seemed to enjoy the view of the Riddermark. With a full stomach and a good night's rest, it was difficult not to better appreciate the sunny hills and the rocky plains covered in shrubberies and outlying ponds to the west of the White Mountains, with glimmering streams that eventually crossed into the Entwash.

His dark hair and large build set a great contrast between Boromir and the men with whom Éohild had been raised. He was perhaps the most broad-shouldered man she had ever seen, but then she did not see many strangers, save for Gandalf when he visited the Mark in her childhood. Even the travelers who came to Edoras were of her people, fair-haired and lean. Though many in the Mark had heard of him, Éohild knew little of the Captain-General save that even her Uncle in his better days greatly respected his prowess, that he had been kind to her long ago, and that his good-naturedness formed between him and Théodred and Éomer a great friendship.

"It is a brilliant view," Éohild could not help but say when hours had passed since their departure. It was a folly of hers, perhaps, that though she was lesser in skill when it came to speech compared to her siblings, it was she who preferred conversation to silence the most.

Boromir jerked as though shocked to see her beside him, and nodded with a smile before it faltered, slightly. "I am loath to take you from it, my lady."

Éohild shook her head. "I wished to go. And," she added, "I have always wanted to see an Elf. Not – that it is the reason I left. I would never leave my sister behind if I did not think it for the good of the Riddermark."

Boromir breathed in amusement. "Lady Éohild, I would not have you explain yourself to me. I am grateful for a companion. And one of the prince's éored at that!"

Éohild had always admired the idea of the Captain-General of Gondor, but it was here she found that she liked him, no matter that after this he did not attempt conversation in the days they spent crossing the Mark except during mealtimes, when he asked if she would like some water and she politely declined. She wanted to remind him that years ago, he had said he would be proud to ride alongside her, and here they were now - but, desiring not to sound like an eager maiden, the Rider kept it to herself. It was enough that he humored her when she wished it.

Evenings before they reached the border of the Mark at Isen, the two were camped beneath a shade of trees. Only the moonlight and a small fire Boromir had sparked lit the night, and Éohild was just about ready to sleep. But something had been eating at her since their last conversation, and she could not sleep until she sat upright and stared at him from across the fire.

Boromir noticed at once. He ceased honing his sword and asked, "Is aught amiss, my lady?"

"My lord," she began, for in those days they had been strangers and were always careful not to presume familiarity, "Where are we going?"

Setting aside his sword as though he were about to tell a very long tale, Boromir answered, "Lore tells us that Rivendell is to the North."

"Yes, to the North. Where in the North?"

Boromir paused, gaze stretching distantly into the fire as he inwardly debated what to tell her. "It was all the greatest lore masters of Gondor, not least of whom is my own lord father, could tell me. Rivendell is known only for accepting travelers with enough fortune to stumble upon it."

Éohild inhaled sharply, attempting to contain her incredulous expression. "And what do you take of your fortune, my lord? Would you stake on it a journey long past the lands of your home?"

Boromir did not miss the slight hostility in her tone. Meeting her eyes, he nodded resolutely. "For Gondor, I would. I will not begrudge your return home."

Éohild relented at once. The honesty, and perhaps the challenge, in his eyes had given her no choice. "No… I did not mean to offend. Fortune or no, I will go for the Mark."

"And so I count my fortune all the greater," said Boromir, smiling lightly. Éohild started, as if caught in a trap, but only laughed.

"Rest," said Boromir. "Our journey will be long and difficult."

Éohild sighed, lying on her back. "Such is a journey with no itinerary."

Boromir snorted and deflected easily, "Such is a quest, as in the legends of old."

At that, a warmth filled Éohild's heart. The way he worded it, even expressed it, pandered to the child that still lived within, the one that once sought glory at the risk of her own life. She knew better now, but the child cried out in joy as she once had on the steps of Meduseld. Attempts to subdue her excited flush ceased; it was evening, at any rate, and he would not see it. Creeping closer to the fire, Éohild let out a yawn and closed her eyes. "Indeed."

* * *

The Fords of Isen met them some mornings later. Éohild had never been one to take note of time and so had already lost count of the days. From where they stood at the riverbank, Éohild could see the black tower of Orthanc rise behind the mountains to the northeast. Saruman the Wizard was said to dwell there, but she had never seen him in all her twenty-one years. He did not descend the fortress at Isengard Vale, and she never thought to ask Gandalf in his visits.

In fact she had never spoken to Gandalf Greyhame, only stood behind pillars and watched him with cautious interest. Wizards had scared her more easily than the thought of Orcs back then. She did not understand their purpose and knew not what to think of them; not to mention Éomer had told her as a child that if she misbehaved, one might turn her into a toad. Éohild told herself now that it was impossible, but she would rather not discover the truth.

The recent rains forced upon Isen an unforgiving current, but horses were steely creatures and cut across the river without so much as a nicker of complaint. At this, Éohild proudly brushed Gram's mane. She had not done much in the way of training him, more because it had not been necessary; perhaps the presence of Boromir's warbred horse had forced the young one to understand his duty and adapt quickly. To his Rider's own relief, no Dunlendings intercepted their crossing.

In the time between their departure from Rohan and their arrival at the ruins of Enedwaith, Boromir grew comfortable making remarks on the views they encountered despite their pretty redundancy. Éohild understood now how he could have become such great friends with her cousin and her brother. The Gondorian was serious in his intent to go to Imladris for his people, and just like the prince he was charming and easygoing when in safe company. Yet she discovered as they continued that his humor stemmed closer to Éomer's; one that ventured with a quip and taunted confidently in assurance of himself.

Enedwaith was a hilly plain to the west of the Misty Mountains with an awning of rocks, shrubs, and traces of what may have once been a forest. Some trees still rose in copses. There was little vegetation, as the area they passed was wholly uninhabited at present, though Boromir insisted that people of the kingdom of the North, Arnor, once dwelled there.

Storm clouds drew over the region on their third day within it and grew darker with the appearance of a black fog that moved toward them with an alarming swiftness. Boromir had seen it on a slow trot after lunchtime, when he turned to Éohild with a question that just as swiftly fell from his mind. He caught the black figure from the corner of his eye.

"What is that?"

As soon as he asked, the fog swept down, breaking the tranquility that had protected them since their journey began with mangled, croaking noises.

"Large crows—crebain," Éohild gasped, urging Gram forward, but the black birds were already above them. The horse cried out, ignorant of Éohild's orders to stop galloping and flailing about in an attempt to flee the nasty, persistent creatures. One crow dove low enough to nip at Éohild's shoulder, trying to tear at the fold of her tunic, and another pulled at her hair as it flew by. Swatting her left hand around, she thought she could hear Boromir having the same trouble, though she could not be certain over the noise and her murky vision, canopied by the terrible fowl. It must have been minutes before the creatures finally soared higher, then circled. Éohild drew one of her swords, but the band simply returned whence they came.

"Are you all right?"

Boromir had fared better, escaping with only a head of tousled hair. Éohild ran her hands through her hair and across her neck, her stunned alarm mirroring his. When he was certain the crows were gone and Éohild was relatively unscathed, he asked, "Are you constantly afflicted by those vermin in Rohan, my lady?"

"No," she frowned, patting down her hair and tunic in embarrassment. They had attacked her arm as well, perhaps attracted to the old wound hidden beneath the leather. "I do not understand why they came to us. I was told they kept east of here, in Dunland. We are not too far from their home, but... I have never heard of attacks."

"An ill omen, perhaps?"

Éohild shuddered, rubbing at her shoulder. Those birds were bizarre. And purposeless, it seemed. "Let us not speak ill of our fortune," she pleaded. "We have a ways to travel yet. How far north did the Lord Steward say was Imladris?"

"Far north, to the west of the Misty Mountains," replied Boromir. He was beginning to grow accustomed to Éohild's unsatisfied sighs. He was certain she had no idea she released them at all, and had long figured that she focused her energies more on battle than ceremony. They were rather alike in that respect, and it amused him. "Do not lose hope, Lady Éohild."

"I will not," swore Éohild, settling back with Gram into a less cautious gait. She continued to look around for signs of crows, but nothing else would come that day. "When you mentioned my home, I thought of my brother and sister. Éomer must still be angry, but Éowyn – I know my departure upset her. It pains me all the more that she understands: one of us must remain with Uncle. It does not escape me that she would fare better in dealings with Elves or any manner of diplomacy. But," she laughed flippantly, realizing with a flush that she had bared her heart without invitation, "I wish not to weight you with my troubles. Surely you would not understand. You _are_ the greatest Captain Gondor has seen in years."

"Not so," Boromir offered, though his pride could not but acknowledge the flattery with a smile. "I understand completely. Faramir is the calmer one; perhaps the greater tactician. Had he come in my place, he would have no doubt succeeded in persuading Éomer to let you join him without bitterness. Yet our father—he chose me." For Faramir's sake, he did not disclose that half of what had stirred him was brotherly worry.

Éohild smiled dolefully. "Then your brother and I would grieve together, Lord Boromir. I know what it means to live in the shadow of another."

"I do not think that. Of any of you, it is Lady Éowyn who lives in the shadow of her kin, all Riders of Rohan. As father places Faramir in mine, though I wish it were not so."

Éohild watched Boromir thoughtfully. She had only ever considered Éowyn's beauty; that for all the bravery she herself possessed, though it was she who bore the pride of the Mark with the livery of their people, she could not measure up to her elder sister when it came to pleasantries and the breathtaking vision that enraptured men when they looked upon her. "That is a new perspective."

Boromir shrugged, appearing solemn for a moment. His eyebrows furrowed in thought, and then he grinned. "Would it not be interesting, my lady, if they met?"

"Who?"

"Lady Éowyn and my brother. He is unknown to you?"

"I confess I have heard naught of him," replied Éohild with some embarrassment. "Only you have ever come to the Mark."

"Hmm. My brother is a lover of music and of stories of old. A very capable warrior in his own right—but a greater judge of character than I, to be sure. Though," said Boromir, pursing his lips as he tapped his horse reins and looked to Éohild, "I would admit to no such a thing in the company of anyone else."

Éohild blinked. "Then I am your secret-keeper for what purpose, my lord?"

"To cultivate your esteem of him, of course!" Boromir grinned. "But never falsely. My little brother would be fortunate to meet a woman of Lady Éowyn's caliber, but he is a fine man himself."

Éohild could not imagine any man who could ever be worthy of her sister, but neither could she imagine the Captain-General erroneously estimating a man's worth. Putting on a smile, she said, "I would fain adjudge the matter myself when I meet him one day; for now, I can but trust your word."

"You may," said Boromir, chuckling. "I believe love would be a boon rather than an ill to them both."

"Ill?" she repeated. "How could love ever bode ill?"

Boromir cast a pensive look upon her. "Such love can be a distraction, don't you think?" To Éohild it sounded as though he had given this much thought. "How can a creature pour itself into battle and glory, into _victory_ , when love pervades all thoughts? But it is also a strength," he added, and on this point and those that followed he sounded as though he were reading a book aloud, or repeating a lesson he had learned but not suffered himself. Here Éohild quietly intuited that it was perhaps why her companion had never taken a wife. "That love provides belonging, a sense of something all their own. As you and Éomer and Théodred have the Riders, and Captainship of the White Tower is mine. And those with this love find death an even more difficult road. Their lives take on a profound significance."

Éohild paused. She never expected Lord Boromir, of all men, of all people, to acknowledge these things. "And what about us: those without such love?"

Easily, Boromir answered, "Friendship, and our people. Such love is chief among the hearts of men, but it is not the only love."

Éohild nodded in approval. "That is a nice thought."

Finally, Boromir's sagely countenance broke in favor of a loud guffaw. "Look at us! Planning a union without the consent of our siblings, who know nothing of each other. We are as eager scandalmongers!"

"Would that we had earlier known it could be such fun," giggled Éohild. The captain's mirth was as infectious as ever.

"When we return home," said Boromir, after they shared another bout of laughter, "let us introduce them. That is something to look forward to, don't you think?"

"Indeed."

* * *

Boromir and Éohild found shelter those days behind the taller hills of Enedwaith. One evening, dinner had long been finished and the two found solace in the fire before them. To the west they had seen marshlands spotted with trees whose short branches and fuzzy leaves drew praises to the sky, but it was the worsening weather, Boromir was certain, which caused the cold breezes that did not abate as the evening came. Éohild wondered if she had been right to ask Boromir not to speak of ill omens. It was summer, after all, yet rain threatened to pour, and had a few days earlier. Even then, the clouds had not been so dark.

Éohild had reached over to throw a blanket dotingly over Gram when Boromir threw water over their small fire. Frowning at him, she asked, "What are you doing, Lord Boromir?"

Boromir raised a finger to his lips. "I hear others in the distance."

Éohild rose abruptly but quietly. "I will go."

Boromir rushed to stop her with a hand on her forearm. "I could not send you into danger, my lady."

"My lord," she withdrew her arm from his, "I am also a Rider. The Second Marshal sends me with a small band ahead of raids to watch enemy encampments, especially since Orc attacks have increased this past month."

Letting his hand fall to his lap, Boromir nodded in surrender. "Very well."

Éohild lay on her stomach when she reached the top of the hill. The clouds parted momentarily, and the moon revealed to her shadows moving about on the next hill over, disfigured with crude-looking armor. The camp was all too familiar to one who had driven them from her home several times before. Skidding back down, Éohild crept beside Gram and snatched back the blanket in order to pack it. As though he understood the urgency despite his youth, the horse gave only the slightest grunt.

"Orcs," she explained to Boromir, who moved very slowly and silently all of a sudden. "I can see no other reason why they would stop for camp save that they know of our presence."

"How many?" he whispered closely.

"I counted eleven," she answered. "Peculiar. It is rare to find so little a force, unless they are stragglers, and we have not seen signs of recent battle. Something is amiss. Or they are—"

Éohild stopped when Boromir reached over to her waist. She jerked sideways to gingerly avoid him, but he had intended for her waistbelt and deftly swiped a small dagger. He threw it, and Éohild heard a dying croak before she knew to look. An Orc scout, up above her on the hill, the encampment's twelfth member. How could she have failed to see him?

"We must leave. Now," declared Boromir, packing as quickly as he could. Éohild agreed, removing the dagger from the Orc's head before stabbing it into its heart again for good measure. There were times when one fatal wound was not enough. It was the same dagger from her childhood, polished and maintained for its sentimental value. All these years and it still managed to save her life.

Mounting his horse, Boromir surveyed the rest of the campsite to ensure nothing was left. "I did not anticipate that our fortune would leave us so quickly."

"Do not lose hope," repeated Éohild, and looked back to the top of the hill. No Orcs yet, but they would soon follow, if the four of them were truly their quarry.

They continued through the hills, riding as swiftly as they were able, resting only when utterly necessary. This went on until it became habit, racing toward that enigmatic North. Éohild never asked the true numbers of Boromir for she took solace in being able to fool herself into thinking that perhaps it had only been days since she last saw her home.

On their first few she had still known by heart the scent of the Hornburg's kitchen, could still hear the clang of steel amidst the laughter of her cousin and her friends in the Westfold despite the ever-looming thought of Orc attacks. She had memorized then the touch of Fleetfoot's shining mane as her fingers combed through its knots and the exasperated visage of her brother and sister whenever they met. Now all she could dredge from her heart were memories that gave nothing she had ever known justice, and if they were ever truly recaptured, they slipped from her before she knew she had them.

There came a day when they rode until sunrise, but their horses began to slow once noon passed. The Captain knew his friend well and informed Éohild, regretfully, that he must rest or collapse completely. Éohild understood that Gondorian horses did not bear the endurance of those from the Mark and agreed. In any case, Gram's fatigue was growing as well; he was only too prideful to reveal it, save for the occasional lags in his gait. They rested among the trees, behind another hill, at the top of which she could see something shimmer in the far distance despite the clouds.

Éohild accepted the water her companion offered when she sat next to him. "Lord Boromir, what is that river crawling into the horizon?" she asked, though she did not expect an answer. The area was suddenly beset by a thick white mist.

"It must be the Gwathló. Or Greyflood," he answered. "A bridge over the river was once used to travel over it between the kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor, and past it the city of Tharbad, but little is known of what became of it when we lost contact with the North."

"Let us hope this bridge still stands," murmured Éohild. "Or if in decay, that it cracks under the weight of those in our tracks."

Evening came after what felt to Éohild like leagues of travel, though it was doubtful with their pace slowed. Because they were being hunted, Boromir no longer permitted fires. Instead, under the shadow of a great tree against the precipice of another hill, they laid as close to each other as was appropriate between the resting figures of both their horses, who had already grown accustomed to sleeping lying down with the arrangement.

Neither Éohild nor Boromir could sleep after they had woken too early the following morning, their mounts still slumbering. The former lay in a supine position, eyes resigned to the sky. No moon tonight, though that was common of late. When they were children and Éomer still tried to justify his becoming a Rider (while they would not), he said that they would never be too far apart.

If anything, they peered up at one moon, and that shortened the distance between them by more leagues than she could ever imagine. Now she was farther from him than she had ever been in her life. _For the Mark_ , she reminded herself. It was why she had agreed to leave, bar her own curiosity.

"Should it rain, we must find shelter," she murmured, eyes narrowing at Boromir for a moment. Éohild knew not if he finally slept. "A coppice is preferable. A grove would be a gift. We were fortunate enough to find this tree."

He had not, despite turning his back on her for the sake of decorum. Rising and righting himself, a leg drawn up and an arm on his knee, Boromir glanced down at her. "Indeed. These Orcs seem to have moved during the day, or they could not have followed us from Rohan. Unless… Unless they hailed from the Misty Mountains."

"But how did they find us? And if they did travel in the day, what more when the sky is blanketed in darkness?"

Boromir frowned. She could barely see it, but having begun to grow accustomed to him, she perceived the disapproval in his voice. "You wish to set out? But the Gwathló will flood, surely, if it rains now. Let us wait for the rain to pass and then go forward."

"The Orcs have no mounts, my lord. If Gwathló floods, the river will take them away."

"My lady, the Isen did not stop them." Boromir's voice grew firmer. "What more Tharbad, no matter the flood? I will not risk our lives for uncertainty. If we must face them in battle, we do so on less perilous grounds."

He stared her down as he spoke, eyebrows furrowed. When the familiar expression registered, even in the near-darkness, accompanied by slight frustration on Éohild's part, she realized that while Lord Boromir was a dignified and kindly nobleman, he was also the famed Captain-General of Gondor, a leader of armies. He gave her the same feeling as did Théodred in the rare moments when she came up against him in conversation, no matter how trivial – one that informed her she could never win.

"If you think it best," murmured Éohild, deferring to him with a nod. She waited for the tension to clear, for the air to feel lighter before asking, "What do you expect they will tell us in Rivendell? What is this weapon you spoke of?"

The air was now thicker than before. He looked at her again, his stare not one meant to coerce but to scrutinize. Caution, as though she were a stranger.

"Lord Boromir?" she asked, seconds later.

Finally, he seemed to come to a decision. His shoulders slackened when he whispered, as if any louder and nightmares would spring to life all around them, "My father believes it is a weapon of the Enemy. In the dream, a voice said, _For Isildur's Bane shall waken.._. Do you know the story, Lady Éohild?"

Éohild jerked up. "You mean...? Yes. We have no lore masters in the Riddermark, but the legend of Isildur is known."

Boromir sat back and nodded. "With it, we can drive back Mordor's forces."

"This is wonderful news!" exclaimed Éohild, squeezing Boromir's arm. He was warmer than she expected, or perhaps it was the cold night. Instinctively, she drew closer. "But how did it come to the Elves? And will they allow Men to wield it again? After all—"

"We Men are the first line against Mordor," was Boromir's defense. "It is only right that we wield it. These Elves hardly partake of the battle against Sauron. Not since centuries ago."

"This is true," agreed Éohild. A light drizzle started briefly before the downpour set in, the torrent of rain obscuring the rest of the Enedwaith beyond their tree. It was chilly, but there was a certain stillness to the moment. The rising scent of wet earth, the sound of nothing but the barrage of raindrops against the hills – these were natural things. Not like war, or Orcs. "To have days of peace…"

Boromir smiled slightly at the woman beside him and wondered when he last saw a soldier appear so carefree. It became Éohild, he thought, that hint of peace upon her sweet features in the evening gloom. Idly, he wished to see it in the light.

Some time passed before he spoke again. "Do you not sue for it, my lady? Peace?"

"I do!" Éohild started at his question. It was easy to lose oneself in such a silence between them. She liked that. "It is why we fight. I was thinking of Meduseld in its former glory; my Uncle before illness struck him and our lands."

"I think the same of the White City," replied Boromir, once again turning his gaze ahead. The rain was letting up. "And Osgiliath – once we win this war, I wish to rebuild it. I am no architect, but it shall become the jewel it once was. After," he added with some consideration, "much restoration to the lower levels of Minas Tirith."

Éohild looked up at Boromir. Something in his tone gave her hope unlike that which she had ever known since her Uncle fell ill. She only realized then how much that part of her who believed things would turn out right had dwindled to the point of near nonexistence, even with Éowyn's comforting words and the leadership of her brother and cousin.

"I want our people to have the freedom to traverse the Mark without the threat of Orcs," she said, permitting herself to speak of her own hopes. "Too oft have our Riders only barely rescued travelers between villages from attacks."

"The Orcs are a problem," Boromir grunted. "The monsters breed like insects."

"Their numbers are endless," agreed Éohild. And then, like lightning, it struck her. "The Orcs!"

Éohild scrambled to her feet and bolted up the hill. Beneath the parting clouds and the coming dawn, their hunters marched forward relentlessly. She nearly tumbled down the hill in her hurry to get down. "They're gaining on us!"

Boromir roused the horses and led them out to ride while Éohild packed their necessities. With their companions fully recuperated, Éohild deemed them prepared for another sprint. They tore through the marshes after only hours. Although the rain had passed, the area surrounding the river Gwathló remained foggy. The air made them shiver, the ground was wet, the grass tall, and the bridge crossing into Tharbad was hardly visible. The river itself, though shallow, like Isen began to run faster.

Boromir found the beginnings of the bridge, but his horse was not anxious to urge them forward. Their pace slowed to a mere trot in their near-blindness, and Éohild complied for what seemed like hours until a great white bird flew right across Gram, causing the steed to whinny in irritation. The fowl's black legs were tucked into its body, feathers as soft as storm clouds ruffling along the breeze.

"What was that bird, my lord?" she called out to Boromir. She could hardly see him in the white mist and followed the retreating tail of his tall mount.

"What bird?" he asked. "I saw none."

There it was again. Pure magnolia white, the slender-necked bird with long, graceful wings spread out in a glide, making its orange beak all the more vivid in her mind. Éohild could swear its beady dark eyes glinted at her purposefully in the moment that it passed even more closely over Gram's mane.

"It must be a swan," said Boromir, after hearing her describe it. "My father said they were once known to flock here. I did not think it would remain true."

"Oh." Éohild unknowingly turned Gram in the direction of the bird that was now clear to her despite the fog. It seemed to slow as she followed it back across the bridge.

"Lady Éohild?" came Boromir's chuckle. "Has my Gondorian horse truly defeated your mearas so easily?"

Gram made an angry sound with his lips in defense, but his rider was mesmerized by the way the swan flapped its wings ahead of her, an invitation of some sort to a memory too far into the clouds to reach. "While he will one day be the glorious steed to a worthy Rider, Gram is no mearas. Only Kings are permitted to bridle them, and only if they are worthy, like my Uncle," said Éohild absentmindedly.

"I see," he called out. "Well. Swans are—" Boromir did not continue. His and his horse's pained cries nearly went unheard as the sound of heavy objects splashing into the river current reached her ears.

"Lord Boromir!" gasped Éohild. Gram reared back and turned in their initial direction. "Are you all right? Did you…?"

"The bridge is incomplete!" he suddenly shouted. More objects crashed into the water, but she was only too glad to hear his voice above the bridge. When his horse trotted into view, they both sighed in relief. "We must turn back and ford the river," decided Boromir.

The Orcs caught up with them as soon as they stepped off the bridge, blocking their way back to the marshes. Up close, the two Men saw that these Orcs differed from one another in height. Most of them were of the usual stature, but a few were tall, some long-haired with intelligent eyes. White markings were stamped on their heads like a hand, though she did not recognize it. Then again, it hardly mattered. They all snickered amongst themselves before the tallest one with sharper teeth than the rest drew his weapon and cleaved it into the ground. "Finally. We've been tracking this meat for days!"

"This task is going to be _tasty_ ," grinned a shorter Orc.

Éohild wondered if food and destruction were all they ever really thought about. Boromir had other things in mind – he charged forward, and his boldness startled the Orcs, who each drew back a step or two. Éohild and Gram followed swiftly enough to take advantage of their surprise and followed their companion down to the river.

"Lord Boromir," she called, "we may yet avoid battle if we cross, now!"

"We must be quick," was his assent. Éohild tossed a dead branch into the water, waiting for it to show them the safest passage along the river, covered in debris, ruins, and tall grass. They could only watch it disappear into the fog.

"This is terrible," she told him, ducking her head near a fearful Gram's as arrows fired past them. "I cannot determine where to cross! Just go!"

"No, we can take them," Boromir insisted, drawing his blade, but his horse had already obeyed their female companion, who had fed him more lovingly than his master, and whose young steed he had warmed to.

The Orcs were fast, reaching them just as Boromir let out a noise in frustration. His horse had gotten caught in a suction hole not far from the embankment. Boromir dismounted to fend off the monsters while Éohild leapt away from Gram to guide the other horse to safety. The current pushed against her knees, almost roaring, but it could just as well have been the Orcs' battle-shrieks. When Boromir's friend was free, the Captain himself had already slain four of them and was taking on another two.

But their majority did not bear down on Boromir; instead, they cornered Gram, who reared back in an attempt to scare them off and prepare to trample them. These Orcs were smarter, however; much fiercer than those they faced so far. They only laughed and drew blood from his legs. Darting to her friend's defense with a furious yell, Éohild hacked one in the back with her longsword and kicked another in the stomach. Snarling, they began to turn their attention towards her. One swung his blade at her feet. She leapt sideward, reaching as she caught herself to swat Gram's rear.

"Go!" she yelled, untying her pack from him quickly. "Flee to safety! Go! _Go!"_

Boromir's horse followed Gram as he galloped into obscurity. They looked back as they left, but Éohild and Boromir were already too caught up in battle to ask them to return. Boromir beheaded an Orc with a deft diagonal slice upward and Éohild was pushing back the sword of one attempting to cut out her face. From the corner of her eye, she saw an Orc making its way to her, sword raised. Giving the last of her energy repelling the other to a final shove, she ducked and hacked off the arm of the approaching creature to her side.

But the one before her had not turned away. Distracted, she turned for Boromir, until it managed to reach far enough to nearly cut into her leather tunic.

Éohild let out a half-grunt, half-scream in shock. Eyes widening in her direction, Boromir finished his own opponent with a sword in the heart, pulled out, and swept over to her, bashing his shield into the Orc's head. While it recovered, Éohild noted painfully that her companion was fond of decapitating his enemies.

It was a while before it registered that the battle was over. Boromir's horse had dropped his rider's pack in his earlier leap towards the river. Éohild threw the bag aside to keep it safe from their attackers before returning to battle, attempting to remember Erkenbrand's training for that pitiful left arm of hers, which still stung. It came in bits and mostly at the last minute, when she remembered to duck her arm and thrust her blade sideways while Boromir's head was knocked with a shield. She winced for him though he kept on, wobbling only for a moment. It inspired her to assure that the rest of their enemies were defeated. When Boromir himself was certain, kicking them on their backs to check for breathing, he whistled ceaselessly.

Éohild did the same. When the horses did not return, she remembered her new wound from the biting sting in her arm. Though it was small, she cleaned up at the river. At the very least, she thought, her first wound had not reopened for the Orc had struck a higher area of her arm.

"Are you all right, Lady Éohild?" asked Boromir, approaching her kneeling figure by the bank. The mist persisted. "Where have the horses gone?"

"They're… gone," murmured Éohild, keeping her eyes on her arm.

Boromir quirked an eyebrow. "Can you not whistle for yours to return? Mine will not, but surely a horse of Rohan…"

"I told Gram to flee to safety. They seemed to want him, though I know not why," Éohild explained. "I was certain he would die, child that he is. I thought… we might take your horse for the rest of the journey, since we'll have managed to kill the Orcs. I did not think he would follow Gram."

"What?" Boromir glared at nothing to the right, attempting to hide his growing frustration. "And we cannot reach them again?"

Éohild lowered her head. "Not at the speed they left. Forgive me."

Boromir ran a hand through his hair and let it stay there, until he scratched his head. "Then we have lost them. Crossing lands uncharted for centuries will be all the more difficult."

"They were attacking Gram. I couldn't let him come to harm!"

"And so you let them loose!"

Éohild breathed sharply, opening her mouth to retort – if she could only find a reason suitable enough. She lowered her eyes in resignation. "I panicked. I am sorry."

Boromir said nothing. When Éohild was finished with her bandages, they set foot into the river. It was indeed more difficult than they imagined without horses, even with Gwathló much shallower than Isen. The shorter one, Éohild nearly got caught in the current a few times while it almost seemed that Boromir, much heavier with their packs, attracted suction holes.

They crossed eventually, when a swan nearly toppled into Boromir so that he fell to his left, tossed by the current, and found shallow ground and safer passage. Éohild only marveled at the fowl to herself so as not to risk Boromir's ire again. Since he refused to spare her even a glance, she knew that a whisper from her would be too much for him to bear at the moment. Éomer and Éowyn were much the same way when they were cross with her.

When they climbed the opposite bank, the two trudged through swamps until nightfall, when they found enough scattered trees to make a small, thin wood. Boromir did not wish to lose any more time than he already knew they would, and it was for this reason that they did not stop at the ruined city of Tharbad. Although it no longer rained, Éohild was thankful for the trees. Crossing any more soggy marshes and empty plains without Gram or any kind of horse would be dreadful, and ghastly with her only companion left still frustrated with her.

By very late dinnertime, when they stopped under a great crack willow standing upon dry land, Boromir had composed himself on the matter of losing the horses. He resolved, in the future, to be more cautious around Éohild where horses were concerned – he supposed he should not have been so surprised to realize that she treated them like kin – but it would not do to treat her so coldly.

There would be greater challenges along the way, and Éohild carried her own weight well enough when there were no horses involved. And it was wrong to break bread with someone without ending a quarrel first.

He built a fire again, when he deemed it safe enough. Éohild remained close to him for warmth, looking up at him on occasion and freezing, shifting her glance aside whenever he looked back, as though waiting for him to turn her away. Boromir was reminded of Faramir trying not to show how it pained him to hear their father's dagger-sharp criticisms, and his heart softened.

"Why would those Orcs have followed us so far across the land?" asked Boromir, handing her a torn piece of dried meat.

Éohild took a moment to recover from the realization that he was speaking with her again and shook her head. "I cannot say. Perhaps we spurred their curiosity as we forded Isen. They did call us… a task. They could have followed you from Mordor. With only one human companion, they must have thought you vulnerable enough."

"No…" Boromir wanted to believe it - he was the Captain-General of Gondor, after all, and Éohild, though a sister-daughter of the King of Rohan, held no such station. But something about the way the Orcs had headed for her steed as soon as they saw him was suspect. "It is strange, but I was little more than a distraction. They aimed for Gram, first—and you, once they saw you."

"You think Gram and I were their targets?" asked Éohild, and then sighed. "We can never be certain now. But that those Orcs could stand traveling in the day – the sky was dark, of course, but…"

"And you noticed, did you not, the mark on their foreheads?"

"You speak of that white hand?" Éohild pondered it, but shrugged. "No Orcs I have slain ever bore such markings. Perhaps they came from the mountains? But no, we saw them at southern Enedwaith, after Isen..."

Boromir nodded. It bothered him that they could not resolve the matter of their hunters' origins, but the symbol of the white hand was lost on him as well. "These are strange times, indeed."

Éohild finished her meal enthusiastically now that she was forgiven. Spreading out their blankets, she lay down and beamed when she saw the stars and the full moon in the corner of her vision between sparse clouds. Éomer and Éowyn saw this night sky. Théodred and their éored, too, and the rest of Edoras and the Mark. She missed her Fleetfoot dearly, and prayed Boromir's horse and poor Gram returned there safely.

"I hope," she yawned, starting to drift off, "we reach Rivendell in a fortnight or so. Just further North…"

"Would it not be better to follow the mountains north?" asked Boromir, toying with the thought. He would feel more certain of the way if they did.

" _No_ ," Éohild nearly gasped. "The Dunlendings live close to those mountains. They do not take to us, descendants of the Éothéod. They will not be as easily defeated as Orcs."

Boromir chuckled. "I have heard of the Dunlendings. I am certain we are past their territory."

"Perhaps," huffed Éohild. "But the Misty Mountains are dangerous. The little I have heard of it – they say the mountains there have their own will. And not any which are friendly to Men."

"Very well," said Boromir, giving it to her only because what used to be the North-South Road did not follow through to the mountains immediately. In any case, he did not imagine that Imladris would lie so close to such a dangerous mountain range. He was likewise amused by this unguarded display of character. It would be the first of many. "Good night, Lady Éohild."

Éohild turned on her side and smiled up at him. "Good night, Lord Boromir."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's chapter 3! (Senna here. :) ) It may seem like they've already gotten to know one another, joking and sharing things, making plans to introduce their unsuspecting siblings, but they've barely scratched the surface at this point, since they're essentially strangers who are allies and have common friends, and so are polite to each other. They're still putting their best foot forward with each other, but it's hard to keep that up as the weeks pass, especially when there are things that test your patience. I would say Éohild losing the horses is the start of them truly breaking the ice, but what do you think?
> 
> We'll be going through their entire journey, or at least the important bits. That'll be two or three more chapters, though I'm angling for two. We can't spend forever on their journey alone, after all—they've still got to go on the Quest of the Ring! But their journey alone will definitely be important for the two of them, and we're excited to show you guys.
> 
> By the way, have you given thought to what Éohild might look like? Of course, she's got great genes like her siblings, but I (Senna) have always had a particular actress in mind when writing her (even if I don't have a very good mind's eye; I barely have it, to be honest, which is why descriptions are so hard for me). I won't say who it is since I know a lot of people would rather not know when it comes to these things, but feel free to PM if you'd like to know! At any rate, we've commissioned art of Éohild, most importantly what her outfit would look like!
> 
> The outfit design was by therainbowcatart on tumblr, which you can find here: [Éohild's outfit design by therainbowcatart on tumblr](https://therainbowcatart.tumblr.com/post/624829655578542080/commission-for-thepartwhere-on-ao3-lotr-related)
> 
> And we also got a separate piece of her in her outfit with her weapons from PaniVolk on twitter here: [Éohild piece by PaniVolk on twitter](https://twitter.com/PaniVolk/status/1294956907590029317?s=20)
> 
> They are both amazing artists, please follow and support them if you can! (And for the record, Éohild is ambidextrous.)
> 
> Please let us know what you thought of the chapter by commenting below! I love hearing feedback from you guys, it truly encourages me to write faster. Thank you for reading!


	4. Courage and hardihood, Part I

Crossing almost nothing but fenland after Tharbad the day previous gave Éohild a newfound appreciation of dry land. They were now in a land called Minhiriath, though neither Boromir nor Éohild knew this to be so, and their first day within it was fairly pleasant. To her disappointment, however, Éohild would not find it to be the case on their second, when she found herself waking before the sun.

A hint of it lit the surrounding wood, lending her sight as she rubbed her eyes open, but the vision it ultimately granted frightened her. The land that now hosted them was densely populated with trees, dominated by forests that stood long before the Mark was even a thought in Eorl's mind, but in the near-dark, it seemed to reveal its secrets to Éohild.

A woman raised upon grassy hills and living forests - many of which her people knew well enough to avoid - she could tell now that the earth here was scarred. What splendor it must have once beheld was lost to time, and only the memory of the wrath wrought upon it remained. Even the morning dew that trickled hope upon the life that endured here could not soothe it.

The small beasts that should have woken by now were silent, or felt the past deeply enough to celebrate the coming morn only in whispers. Éohild grasped it in turn and shivered, inching closer to Boromir's still sleeping form. She was no coward, but the attack had left her wary, and she thought she could see that white hand in distant branches where in truth there was naught but air.

She calmed herself by reviewing their provisions, and just as soon knew regret. They had only enough to last them the day, and then she would have to start hunting to ensure that there remained emergency rations in times of true need. Her eyes flitted down to Boromir with suspicion, but the ill she had thought of his male appetite dissipated as she felt a breeze creep eerily beneath her hair and her cloak.

It tickled the back of her neck. With a sharp inhale in reaction, Éohild reached for her only companion's shoulder and began to shake him. "Lord Boromir. Lord Boromir," she called quietly.

Boromir seemed unmoving for a moment, and then he stirred. With a jerk, his hand seized the hilt of his sword lying next to him. Seeing him draw it nimbly from its scabbard even in his half-sleep, Éohild grabbed his arm to stop him. He resisted until he heard her call his name.

"Lord Boromir," she said with relief, "do not be alarmed."

His wide eyes settled, and then crinkled as he squinted at her. Now that he was at ease, he struggled to keep them open. "My lady...? What is the matter?"

Éohild paused. Now that she was not alone in her waking, the thought that there lived any intelligent creature apart from them both in that forest - and a sinister one at that, as her imagination had suggested - was utterly ridiculous. With a deep breath, she met his gaze, trying to find a way to save face. "I... wish to train."

Her companion continued to blink himself awake, and then he turned on his back and propped himself up on his elbows before finally righting himself. "What?" He cast his eyes about and noticed the growing light around the forest, but he saw only what she saw now - mere trees. Only when her words appeared to reach him did he speak. "Lady Éohild, we must keep to the road."

"We _have_ no road," Éohild insisted. The words were impudent, but her earnest tone softened them. "I will own it—our battle two days past unnerved me. Days of travel, even in our escape of those orcs, have dulled my senses. I wish not to be caught unawares again."

Boromir regarded her. During the battle he had thought her capable and saw not the weakness she feared, but training was never an unsound thought. "I suppose," he said thoughtfully, "now that our horses are lost, I've no excuse not to keep my hand in."

Éohild had the good sense to look embarrassed when their horses were mentioned. Still, after offering the apology of her silence, she beamed. And then she rose quickly, gathering their things and setting them aside to give them enough room between trees. When she returned to him, he was ready, properly dressed and armed with a familiar smile on his mouth. She thought she had forgotten this particular mirth of his, but it looked just as it had five years ago.

As though he could read her mind, he said, "There will be no appraisal this time, Lady Éohild."

The flattery was plain in her own smile. "Lord Boromir, you remember our first meeting?"

"Of course. It was by invitation of Theodred and Éomer, then a member of Theoden King's eored, that I visited that day."

"Éomer?"

The question made Boromir pause. In a surprising show of hesitation - Éohild had not known he was capable of it - he pursed his lips. "Perhaps I have said too much."

"No..." Éohild dragged on the 'o' in a mirror to her thoughts. Her Marshal's invitation came as no surprise, but her brother's? "I would hear the reason Éomer wrote you. I am certain it was his wish that I lose heart rather than join the Riders. Was it not so after all?"

Again, that hesitation. Boromir of Gondor was a proud man, but not enough to resort to prevarication when the truth was in question. With a resigned sigh, he met her hopeful gaze. It was when she bore this expression that he most understood Éomer's agitation at her joining the Riders. She was taller than most women, yes, as was Lady Éowyn, but the gentle curve of her face reminded him of what he had learned in his childhood years - that a lady should not come to harm even when she sought danger, however inadvertently.

His experience of her spoke differently, of course. Éohild had fought well at his side; her skill could not be questioned, and thus he would not insult her by sharing his thoughts.

"I will speak," he said carefully, "if you will be my secret-keeper. It would more than incense the Third Marshal if he ever learned that I betrayed his confidence."

"Of course."

Boromir nodded. "While it is true that Theodred wrote me out of friendship, and upon the instruction of Theoden King, who hoped that the new Riders might benefit from knowing a Captain from an allied kingdom…" he cleared his throat. "Éomer implored me to come and dissuade you."

Éohild frowned at once, but Boromir raised a hand and continued. "Do not think ill of him. His request was borne of love for his youngest sister."

Her apparent displeasure lessened not an ounce. It was only out of respect for him that she eased her furrowed brow as she spoke. "So you _were_ there to keep me from my induction."

"Did I presume the gall to do it?" asked Boromir, though the retort was spoken calmly. "I will not deny that the prospect of a lady choosing the sword confounded me. But I wished to see your potential for myself, and I did—my words that day were no lie, my lady." He eyed her at that and, seeing her indignation doused, gave her a small smile. "But surely the opinion of a stranger mattered little to a proud Rider of Rohan."

Éohild let her eyes fall when it was clear that she had spoken too soon, but the slight humor in his voice invited her gaze back to his. His quirked brow, coupled with his mirth, bade her release the breath she held through a chuckle. "I had not been a Rider then, and I know now that the Captain-General of Gondor is hardly a mere stranger. I thought my ears would fall off, you know, such was the scolding I suffered at Éomer's hands when you had gone."

"And yet," Boromir said, shaking his head, "I felt you would have fought to the death for your honor, even had you known my identity."

"Would I have?"

"Lady Éohild," he said, as though he spoke wisdom beyond his own years, "had you seen the look you had given me, you too would understand that no rebuke from even the King could have stopped you."

Éohild's indignation returned, and Boromir grinned. "That look," he said. "Exactly that, my lady."

Hearing the mirth in his voice and very reasonably resenting any reminder of her younger years, Éohild's sulking expression only deepened. With a huff, she turned away from him - and then, after a moment, drew her sword. A smile lay at the corner of her mouth, but her words were entirely serious.

"I think that I shall fight for my honor after all, Lord Boromir."

Boromir blinked, and then he inclined his head to recognize her decision, no matter that it was half-made in jest. Drawing his sword, he agreed—and then Éohild lunged.

Boromir was not as quick-footed as his companion, but neither was he slow, and the element of surprise was his. True was the Captain of Gondor to his word, and without warning her of the onslaught that awaited her, he advanced in turn, his strokes much heavier and quicker than she had ever anticipated as they bore down upon her sword.

It was not very long before Éohild found herself poised to surrender. She would not have, for she shared the pride of the children of Éomund, were she not pinned to the ground with a blade at her neck.

Éohild glared up at him. A gracious victor for the moment, Boromir did not point out that it was _that_ look yet again.

But his smile betrayed him. Éohild half-groaned, half-chuckled in resignation, and let her head fall back to the ground.

"I yield."

* * *

Éohild carried that loss with her and the losses that followed as they sparred the days after, though she was careful enough not to show it to Boromir. At the very least, the training had achieved its true purpose - keeping her thoughts from the wounded land they continued to traverse northwest - though her prediction on their provisions accomplished the same just as well. That first day saw them finish most of their shared supplies of smoked meat and dried fish, and Éohild took it upon herself afterward to hunt their meals in order to preserve rations. Boromir had offered to share the burden, but she refused him. His near-effortless victory over her had wounded her ego, and only this labor would bring her relief.

Many mornings later, the sun yawned into the horizon and rid the endless forest of any visions that might provoke Éohild's natural superstition. Dawn's chill had settled over her cloak and the tip of her nose, but she did not shiver; she was on the move for a deerlet she had spotted away from its kin, and the excitement of finding anything larger than her usual hare had shaken the vestiges of exhaustion from her body.

Many of the Eorlingas were herders and farmers, but the Riders were hunters also, though their often trespassing quarry were rarely meant for consumption. Still it meant that she knew to move unheard, whether in the tall grass or in the trees that watched her, and she readied the bow that had seen little use since they had set out until now.

The fawn had wandered to a little clearing in the forest, where tall grasses reigned. It was still, head lowered to the forest floor as it ate, but its ears were perked in anticipation of an inevitable hunter. Even in her hunger, Éohild saw it, and she waited, watching patiently.

If only her stomach knew her mind. Suddenly it emitted a loud grumble, and her prey fearfully lifted its head.

"No," she murmured, quickly drawing an arrow, but it was too late. Alarmed, the deerlet sprang away; and in desperation, its hunter leapt from her hiding place, sprinting out of the forest as she fired after it.

Her arrow would have found its mark had her feet done the same - but in watching her prey, Éohild had failed to see the land. Right as the nock of her arrow came free of her fingers, her right foot slammed unsteadily against the curving mouth of a shallow pit in the ground. She yelped, twisting just enough to fall on her side rather than her face, and landed with a thud.

Their breakfast was long gone.

"Ugh…"

Éohild groaned and rolled over on her back. She planted her boots on the ground, only to wince—she had twisted her ankle in the fall.

Another groan, and she braced herself to sit up. It was unnecessary to remove her boot at that juncture; the injury was a familiar one to her from her time as a squire. Now there was only the matter of climbing this accursed pit and making her way back to camp. No doubt Lord Boromir was waiting. Embarrassment filled Éohild's fair face, though she was grateful it did so now rather than later. At the very least, her companion was not present to witness this new failure.

Boromir was indeed waiting when she returned, having already prepared a small spit, though he had yet to light a fire beneath it. He looked relieved to see her - it was clear that he was excited to skin and prepare breakfast, as was the duty he had chosen when she refused him hunting - but his face fell when he saw nothing in her hands. Worse so when he saw her limping.

"Lady Éohild," he rose to his feet at once. "Are you harmed?"

Éohild shook her head to interrupt. She had spared herself enough pity upon her returning hobble to camp and she wanted no more from him. "I'm all right. I…" she held her breath, trying to come up with some reason that would not reveal her own folly, but that was hardly conducive to thought. When her pause had gone on for too long and nothing came to her, she sighed. "...tripped. Twisted my ankle."

After a pause, Boromir approached, reaching for her arm. "Come on, then. Sit down."

She protested, of course. "Lord Boromir—"

He was silent, but he did shoot her a speaking look reminiscent once again of her Marshal. Éohild instinctively clamped her mouth shut, but sighed and permitted him to help her closer to their would-be fire. She still tried not to lean into him on the short journey there.

When she finally sat, he gently set her injured leg upon the ground. Crouching, one elbow on his knee, he stared at her. "Shall we take a look, Lady Éohild?"

Éohild resisted the urge to grumble. She was perfectly capable of dressing a twisted ankle, but she was a soldier and he was a Captain, and though they were traveling companions here, she did not wish to rouse his ire again. She nodded.

With a look of approval, he undid her boot and folded up her sock, setting both aside neatly. His now ungloved fingers were rough to the touch, but gentle as he grasped her foot and felt about her ankle. It had already swollen during her return, and was tender, though she schooled her features as his hand grazed it.

"It isn't too bad," she insisted.

"No," he agreed, finally looking at her. "But you will not be hunting for the next few days, my lady. And no training."

Pained and hungry, Éohild glared at the dirt by her good foot. "I suppose." With a sigh, she reached for the pack he had set next to her and rifled through its contents until she found some bandages. He held a hand out for them, but instead she held them to her chest. "I can do it myself, my lord. I am as accustomed to injury as any soldier."

Boromir frowned, but he gave her that with a sigh. He thought it a foolish matter, but perhaps he understood. He would have offered but not insisted upon helping one of his own men had they refused. Again it appeared that though Theodred had offered his cousin as a traveling companion, he could not but see her as his responsibility, being the sister of his peers, and a lady at that.

But if pride would be her way, then he would not pursue it. He was just as hungry as she, and it appeared that she could indeed, though slowly, dress her own ankle. His thoughts now turned to breakfast. "What led you to this injury?"

Éohild finished wrapping her ankle as she looked to him. Her eyes both brightened and dimmed at the memory of her lost quarry. "A fawn. It ran into a clearing full of tall grass in the forest, where I fell into a pit. Have a care if you find it."

"A fawn…" Boromir's mouth watered at the prospect. They'd had nothing but dried food for weeks, and the prospect of such high-quality meat made him smile. Reaching over to lift Éohild's foot and set it on his own pack to elevate it, he said, "Very good. I shall find it and bring us back…" he raised his eyes, finding the sun through the branches above, "lunch. Will you start the fire while I am away?"

Éohild nodded, but paused right as she handed him her bow and quiver. "A fawn scares very easily, my lord."

"I _know_ how to hunt, my lady," Boromir replied with a smirk, and accepted the hunter's tools.

Éohild had no reason to doubt him. She could not imagine that such a famed warrior was incapable of anything. Neither did he as he set out to hunt for them.

Alone in their little camp, she set to her task of starting the fire. This had always been her companion's task, or someone else's when it came to the Riders, and so she had not attempted this since long before she came of age. It would be apparent to anyone who saw her attempts for the next hour. She was only glad that her companion, who had already born witness to her failure today, was not present to see this new one.

In truth, Boromir would fare no better in his new task. The Captain of Gondor was no Ranger, not like his brother - he was a man of war, and though stealth was an art he had learned for it, his battlegrounds very rarely called for the silence his hunt required of him.

An hour or so passed before Éohild saw him again. By then, alone with the whining of a still-empty stomach, she had grown very grumpy. Why had they not spared themselves some meat from yesterday's hunt?

Before she could decide who was to blame for both their appetites, the sound of heavy footsteps signaled Boromir's return. Her eyes fell expectantly to his hands, which did not hold what he had promised for lunch.

She was too hungry to conceal her disappointment at the sight of two rabbits. "That is no deer."

Looking rather worse for wear, or perhaps just as starved as she felt, Boromir looked pointedly at the dry wood at her good foot before looking to her again. With a wrinkle of his nose, he replied, "And that is no fire."

Éohild grumbled incoherently at her failed attempts but said no more.

Boromir watched her triumphantly for only a moment. Even before she glanced away in defeat, he remembered that he was not a petty man. It was hunger that made him so, and more than that, shame—shame for Éohild had proven herself a proficient hunter, waking in the low light to start early for both their sakes and bringing back enough game, often large hares, to last them a day of travel. Shame that now, when the task fell to him, what had he caught but two measly rabbits?

With a sigh, he set down his pitiful hunt and reached into the makeshift cloth pack he had tied to his belt. "Eat these first," he said, giving it a shake as he dangled it from his fingers. When it caught her attention, he tossed it to her.

Éohild snatched it from the air and loosed its contents on her palm with a curious brow. Nuts and berries. She opened her mouth and shut it again, unwilling to voice her hesitation.

They had spent only three weeks together on the road, but already Boromir knew how Éohild wore her heart on her sleeve - and how she did not mean to. It was amusing, though a companion could not but take offense in that moment. "They are perfectly safe to eat, my lady," he reassured her with his lips set in a line. "Ere Faramir's enthusiasm for Ithilien grew to love, this knowledge of flora took him, which he inflicted upon me in turn. It is to our fortune that the ruins of the Northern kingdom still bear some similarity to the South, for I could do naught but listen to my dear brother. And so you may rest easy and partake of them—though the lady may think little of my hunting."

Éohild smiled. "This is foraging. Not hunting."

Boromir bristled at the truth. Being the better man, however, and out of gratitude for the past few days that she had brought food to their table, the Captain of Gondor bit his tongue.

His companion wished she had done the same. She had always known that hunger made her much too plainspoken, but it very rarely occurred in polite company. Among the Rangers, she was free to mock her fellows as they often did her, but Lord Boromir was not her peer. He had been kind, but he was ever her better, only her mouth had yet to learn it. She felt worse when she tried the berries he'd brought back, too - they were sweet, and she devoured nearly half of them before she even realized it.

Full of guilt, Éohild dared to look upon him. He had turned away to skin the rabbits. "Lord Boromir? Thank you," she said, without waiting for him to look. "I know little of the land's gifts. I meant no insult, but I am sorry I gave it."

Boromir paused and glanced over his shoulder to regard her. He nodded. "All is well, my lady."

Éohild pursed her lips. "I saved half for you. They're very good. Here."

She offered, but her injury kept her immobile. Boromir turned again, exposing his bloody hands to her. He was halfway finished with the first rabbit. "Later, perhaps."

"Oh." Éohild plucked a berry from the bunch in her hand and held it up, and then eyed her companion. "Well… if you would like," she said carefully, for she treaded new ground between them, "my closest friends among the eored and I have a solution to a sore lack of cutlery... and hygiene, at least on the part of the one who is to receive."

He quirked a brow.

"I do this…" Éohild was unable to stifle a sheepish grin as she raised the nut in her hand. "And you catch it, my lord."

"With what?" he asked, right as the answer came to him. He scoffed, and then chuckled at his own shock. "A waste of my _foraging_ , don't you think, should your aim prove untrue?"

"My aim?" Éohild grinned, "or yours?"

Boromir stared at her, biting his inner cheek. He was not a petty man, but was a man not entitled to his pride? "You are fond of challenges, Lady Éohild. But I suppose surprise on my part would only speak poorly of my mind, for experience should have already taught me thus."

Whether he meant their first meeting or her insistence upon training and then a duel, Éohild flushed in humiliation. But she was accustomed to teasing, and she supposed she deserved it today. But only today - a woman was entitled to her pride, after all. "I suppose," she huffed with mirth, "but the challenge remains."

Wiping his hands on the cloth on which he'd lain the rabbit, he turned. "I will rise to it," he said, as though it were issued by an enemy from the East and not by his injured companion. When he looked ready enough, she tossed one of the nuts gently in his direction. He caught it easily in his mouth, and a berry next, and upon his third success he began to chew with some exaggeration to emphasize his natural affinity for the little sport—the perfect opportunity to find a berry hitting him in the eye.

With a yelp, he gaped at her. "Lady Éohild!"

She couldn't help the guffaw the court ladies would call unbecoming. "I'm sorry! I could not help it, my lord." Settling, and still laughing, she shook out the tension from her shoulders (as though this were necessary for tossing berries) and cleared her throat. "In any case, one must never let down their guard."

"Oh?" Boromir quirked a brow. "My lady with a twisted ankle lectures me on watching my surroundings, does she?"

"That is an _unworthy_ response from the Steward-prince of Gondor."

"Less worthy than Theoden King's sister-daughter pelting berries at him?"

Éohild found her lips set in a line, upper lip sucked into her teeth. "Prepare yourself."

"A captain is always prep—my lady!"

No sooner had Boromir signaled his readiness than Éohild began pelting his hard-foraged work at him. That day, as the trees shaded them from the sun's harsh summer gaze, the Captain of Gondor learned that his traveling companion was a consummate cheat. Breakfast was not forgotten, but the friction between them, roused by hunger, was soon leveled away with laughter.

* * *

Boromir continued to be in charge of hunting the next few days, and to his private frustration, the creatures he managed to hunt were never as meaty as those Éohild had caught after Tharbad - though he took no pleasure in watching her struggle to start a fire. Certainly he would rather be known for being poor at kindling campfire than at hunting game, if he must be poor at anything at all.

He supposed he could find a kindred spirit in her. His determination to hunt larger prey for them was reflected in her complete stubbornness as she insisted upon sparring once again. Not two days had passed when she challenged him once more, though with a full stomach she had the delicacy to put it forth as a humble request to keep her hand in.

That same day, the endless forest began to thin, closer to what was likely a river. Boromir did not love Ithilien as Faramir did, but he had a fondness for rivers, which had always treated him well - save perhaps Tharbad - and so he knew they must be near one when he felt the air change around them. Rather than the close, stuffy air that suffocated the land they crossed, the breeze was free, and fresh, and full of life. It was the air he hoped would one day pervade Osgiliath when the war was over.

 _If_ it would be over in his time. Its longevity was not a thought on which he permitted himself to dwell, but his mind was not immune to wandering.

Boromir swallowed down the thought, or he tried. There was no merit in thinking on the ceaseless attacks on Gondor's borders now. Was this journey not a venture of hope? Had he not left his city to seek its fortunes in a land so far afield that even his father knew not where it lay? For if he and Faramir had dreamt falsely - what then?

"Lord Boromir?"

Éohild's voice called him from the depths of his doubt. Her uncertain smile reminded him of many things, not least of which was Éohild herself. He did not seek hope alone. Theodred had entrusted him with his cousin, and Éohild herself had dealt with the filth that often slipped past Gondor's defenses, to his repeated shame. He could not fathom failure where there stood before him a reminder of all he would lose to a moment of weakness.

Putting on a humorous smile, Boromir ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head. "Forgive me. Where were we?"

Sword in hand, Éohild motioned to his. "You agreed to train."

"Ah." Boromir drew his own weapon and took a few steps back across the clearing in which they stood. "Then let us begin, my lady."

In spite of his words, it was Éohild who closed the distance between them. Her speed surprised him - had he imagined her injury all this time? - but he regained his composure quickly enough to meet the flurry of her sudden assault. Trusting his own skill, he caught each of her attempts to confuse him and met her blows mightily, though only barely for some - a fact he would certainly take to his own grave.

That afternoon the sun had hidden behind the clouds, granting neither of them the benefit of its glare, but not even the dark could hide Éohild's intentions. Neither of them could gain the advantage, which was well enough for him, for the exercise was all he sought - but not for Éohild, who soon grew frustrated. He saw it on her face. Her visage, once cool, had become determined with each blow, until it revealed the feint she would attempt too early.

Boromir caught it and knocked her back, making her stumble. Deftly she caught herself on her good foot, and it was a fine recovery - or would have been, had his eyes not caught the pain flash deeply across her face. It had gone so soon that he wondered if he had even seen it.

"Are you all right?"

"I am," said Éohild, though she clenched her jaw. "And I am ready."

Boromir frowned. "Let us give it a moment. Engaging in battle with a roused temper will burden only yourself."

"I _know_ this."

"If you know it," said Boromir sternly, "then use it. Your sword is not all you have at your disposal. Your body, your surroundings, even your enemies - use them all. But you cannot see these with anger."

Éohild did not lower her gaze, but she did relax. He knew that to be taught was an affront to her pride, as it might be for any warrior of some experience, but he would not spare her pride where necessity demanded otherwise. In any case, it would give her time to regain her composure.

He saw that it did when they resumed their spar. It seemed that in her desire to prove herself an equal swordsman, she had relied solely on technique rather than on learned instinct. This was the warrior he had seen at Tharbad, though impaired by her worry for their horses. Now Éohild used not only her speed, but her body and his - ducking, weaving round him, leaning into his heavier blows rather than resisting them for easier recovery, and then maneuvering about to catch him where he left himself open.

It was in one such latter instance when she nearly had him. Ever aware of his surroundings, he knew he was quickly backing into a tree. Boromir thought to turn, to lead them away from this corner and turn the battle in his favor, but upon Éohild's final advance, she swung her sword in time with her foot landing between his - and again her landing failed her.

With an abrupt grunt, she fell.

Eyes wide, and briefly realizing why her often pleasant disposition was now so easily roused, Boromir slid an arm around her waist and caught her. Inwardly, he cursed himself for permitting the 'practice' when he should have known she was not fully recovered. But all this had come in the middle of the maneuver he had planned, and with her momentum, neither of them could stop him falling back against the tree.

Éohild groaned, grunting in pain against his chest. They stood, barely, at an awkward angle, and one wrong step would have them both collapse. Careful to keep her up, Boromir moved very slowly, steadying himself against the trunk with his head and his neck in an attempt to plant his feet firmly on the ground.

"Lady Éohild—are you all right?"

She winced, but nodded, her hands grasping his tunic. "Yes. Thank you." She shifted again, and then appeared to realize their proximity. Éohild gulped, lips parting, and gave an unnatural cough. "...Did I win?"

Even with his worry, Boromir chuckled. "I'm afraid not." His eyes flitted to his sword, still in his hand, and tilted his wrist to angle it toward her.

The embarrassment on her face bloomed into a furious blush. "That's cheating! I fell, but I had you. I did."

Boromir could not help his snort. "A simple lesson. Use all at your disposal - even your enemies. Especially their weaknesses."

Éohild curled her lip, though he knew she gave him the victory when she accepted the hand he had offered to steady herself and her glare softened. Her wounded pride remained plain on her flush face, however, even after Boromir righted himself.

Strange. He had thought her exceedingly comely since he saw her again on the steps of Meduseld nearly a moon past, but in that moment, faced with her indignation and the stubborn determination in her gaze, he felt something entirely new stir in the core of him.

As quickly as it came, he dashed it from his mind as some manner of indigestion. His grin returned, and he inclined his head expectantly. "Shall we call it a draw?" he asked, though he gave her not the opportunity to answer. "At any rate, we will have no more of these duels until you recover, my lady. _Fully._ My misjudgment brought this about, but it will not happen again." Should they encounter more enemies in the North, after all, a repeat performance by her ankle would endanger her.

Éohild looked ready to protest, but eventually saw reason. "Very well."

Boromir nodded, pleased, and clapped her on the shoulder twice as he would any of his soldiers. Assured of her balance, he walked past to retrieve their belongings and bring them to her. "Let us see that ankle again. When you've rested, we move."

* * *

To Éohild's dismay, what she would tactfully put as Boromir's natural affinity for authority would only grow stronger in the coming days. She had already seen it when he first refused to cross Tharbad and when he refused to believe that she could manage her own injury, and the river they found some mornings later was another occasion to witness it.

This river was the Baranduin, but not even the inhabitants of the land across it called it thus. To them it was called the Brandywine, and had Boromir and Éohild followed it upstream, they may have found an aptly named stone ford and Men who, learning their purpose, may have made their journey to Imladris much shorter. But, unfamiliar with the North, they would come to do no such thing.

"We're to cross here?" asked Éohild, staring past the river ahead. The water came from the northeast and then curved where they stood, as if to greet them, before angling northwest again. The land across seemed clear, or at the very least not thickly forested, though great mountains rose to the west whose names Boromir had yet to tell her. "This is much wider than the Greyflood."

Boromir had already tossed a twig into the river and watched its chosen path intently. "Yes. And?"

His simple answer drew her unsatisfied stare. "And surely we will find some old bridge if we follow the river."

Now her companion turned to her. "As we had in Tharbad?" Before she could answer, he shook his head. "No, my lady. We cross here while the weather is in our favor." Éohild could only conceal a sigh as he regarded her. "Why the reluctance, Lady Éohild?" Again, she could not even speak before he presumed to know. His eyes flitted to her right boot. "Ah. Your ankle. I could easily carry you across."

The look in his eye as he met hers said this had already been decided, but Éohild shook her head. "No, my lord. I can cross the river." It was true that reinjury was the cause of her caution, but she already felt terribly about the accident, and to be a burden again was a worse ordeal than dealing with a little pain. And, knowing herself best, she knew she was skilled enough to ford it, in any case.

"There is no shame in fording a river on the back of one's companion," Boromir shrugged. He was unable to comprehend her need to refuse him on this matter, and felt this discussion unnecessary. "A soldier may have pride, but it does not avail you here, my lady."

Éohild's eyes widened. She seemed absolutely ready to challenge him again, this time without an ounce of jest, but now it was she who chose to bite her tongue. She would give him that this discussion was a waste of time - but no more. "I am perfectly able to cross the river, my lord," she said, suddenly able to emulate the cold poise that was once only Eowyn's. It was an ability of all their kin, only Éohild had never been treated with such care that she had required it. "If you are ready."

Too dignified to roll his eyes, Boromir only shook his head in disbelief and led the way.

It was a shame that their pride made them unable to travel on better terms that day, for the weather was indeed fair and the vision of the windy green plains that awaited them past the river and its floodplains was meant to be shared in peaceful companionship. It was also the last morning that the skies would be so kind to them in the days to come. Later that evening, clouds gathered heavily over them in warning, though they did not notice until the next morning when Éohild realized that the sun was late, hidden behind the dark firmament, and when Boromir found himself sweating for the humidity in spite of it.

Hours later, when a mist had settled over the land, the rain finally poured. The fog had plunged them into a world of white, perhaps gray, so that they could see nothing but the way right ahead of them and the great mountains that rose far to the west. They had nearly missed a great boulder jutting out of a rising slope of earth, wide and thin, almost like the eave of a door. Or perhaps it was what Boromir saw in his desperation as he pulled Éohild beneath it.

The shelter was too small for them both, but they made do of it, sitting abreast of each other with their backs to the rocky hillside. Éohild lowered her hood and began to squeeze out her damp hair. "What were those mountains in the distance?"

Boromir was rifling through his pack, and he was never more relieved to find that they had rations left for this purpose than that moment. Passing her a few bites of jerky, he stared in the direction of the unseeable west. "The Blue Mountains," he said. "Beyond them lies the sea. They are one of the Dwarven realms."

"Dwarves?"

Boromir needn't have looked at Éohild to know the way her eyes almost sparkled at the sound of her voice, but he did. "We will not be passing the Blue Mountains," he said, dashing her hopes at once.

"...Why not?" she asked after a pause, and quietly. "If Rivendell is in Eriador, these dwarves must have _some_ idea as to its location."

"The dwarves and the elves have ever had some manner of quarrel between them."

"What quarrel?"

Boromir now wished he had not answered her at all as he shot her a look. Once, it had been enough to silence her - as it would silence any of his men. Of course, as with his men, it was always his intention to be pleasant with his companion, but there was a certain amount of reservation that must always be left between a commander and his men that he had meant to keep with her. But the glee that came naturally to Éohild, so quick to hope, had begun to wear away at these walls. At any other time, it might inspire curiosity in Boromir.

At present, it only irritated him, for the question of the war and whether it would outlast him from days past lingered in his mind. They had now been on the road for close to a month, by his reckoning, and they seemed no closer to finding Imladris. He had ever been slow to despair, but he had ever been close to home, ready to defend it. The journey away now started to feel to the captain more like an enduring failure than an unfinished quest. It was the reason for which, though Éohild's injury was beyond his control, his small failure to prevent its reoccurrence (or rather his part in it) weighed heavily on him. He could permit nothing more to distract them. Especially not Éohild's curiosity.

When she continued to stare at him with expectation instead of relenting, he sighed with great exasperation. "I know not. But we will not be heading for the Blue Mountains, Lady Éohild."

He gave her the look again, for much longer, daring her to challenge him, and finally Éohild sighed and turned ahead, staring into the rain. She drew her knees up to her chest and crossed her arms over them, resting her chin on an armguard. To others she might appear expressionless, but Boromir caught the slightest pout on her lower lip. Later, this would amuse him, but for now, it was her silence that brought him comfort.

On Éohild's part, she had very little idea what dwarves and elves were like, and the little she knew came from childhood stories whose validity she now doubted. But she imagined that if elves were to the dwarves anything like her companion to her, then she understood why they would have some quarrel. But she doubted this was the case. Would friendship between two races be so strange?

The thought kept her mind busy, for she knew better than Boromir to think of home and how she longed for it, and they spent the afternoon there in hopes that the rain would dwindle come evening.

It did not. The poor weather clung to them as they made for the north, though it could not be said that the rain and the dark clouds overhead, rumbling with lightning and calling forth the cruel winds to seep into the cloaks they wrapped about themselves, brought no good to the two travelers. By the time they reached a series of chalk hills a week later, they were so cold and so miserable that they forgot momentarily their growing familiarity and the dislike it inevitably brought to acquaintances considering friendship. By then, any good turn of fortune was to be celebrated together - and the sky granted it that afternoon, parting for the sun.

When Boromir stopped upon one of the grassy hills, declaring the area safe enough to rest, Éohild let out a sigh of sheer happiness.

She dropped her pack to her side and fell unceremoniously to her rear, shaking out her legs. Leaning back with her palms in the grass, she tilted her head back and felt the heat of the sun on her face. The wind was her friend again, whispering sweetness upon the hills and mussing her hair in jest. "Glorious sun," she breathed.

Still on his feet and undoing his bracers, Boromir glanced down at her. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," she answered with a small smile, their gazes turning toward her ankle. When she lifted hers again, Éohild squinted and motioned ahead, to the west, where white towers rose on hills beyond. She counted three. "What are those?"

They had not noticed the towers in the storm, but now Boromir sat at her side to look upon them. "White towers," he said, obviously, but also curiously. "Relics of the kingdom of Arnor. Were my brother or my father present, they may have been able to tell you aught of them."

Éohild looked upon them with wonder. "Is your White Tower - the Tower of Ecthelion," she enunciated, remembering the little her uncle had once mentioned of it, "is it more beautiful than them?"

"Oh, most assuredly," said Boromir, but more out of love than arrogance. His smile was always gentle when he spoke of home. "If looking to Meduseld is as riding home to a palace of gold, to return to Minas Tirith, the White Tower at its peak - it is as looking upon a beacon of silver and pearl, fashioned with shimmering crystals. On a day like this, it would be…" He paused, and then sighed, having found himself breathless at the memory. "It would be the very name of beauty. I wish to show you one day."

"And I wish to see it," said Éohild, earnestly as he met her gaze. Eager to share a love of her own, she continued, "I wish to show you the Hornburg as well. Many know it for the impenetrable fortress as it stands, but behind it lie the Glittering Caverns - to lie beneath its walls is to lie beneath the stars, only you could _touch_ them. Oh, but my words cannot do them justice," she laughed with some embarrassment, which deepened when she realized her own rambling. "Though as an honored guest, you must have already been to see it, and the Horn of Helm Hammerhand…"

Boromir shook his head with encouragement. "I have not. I have seen only Edoras - though to say _only_ is not to belittle it, for it is a beautiful city."

That appeared to surprise Éohild, but she was no longer deterred. "Do you know why it is called the Horn of Helm Hammerhand, my lord?"

Boromir pursed his lips. "When I visited in my youth, Theoden King told me…" He remembered a few details, but when he looked to her, the excitement she exuded made him smile. "Will you tell me?"

Éohild paused. She was not accustomed to being favored, nor her voice being sought - among the Riders, one must speak to be heard. She wondered briefly if he humored her out of a misplaced sense of responsibility, and hesitated. "Are you certain?"

Boromir nodded. "I will grant that my interests lie in tales of age old battles, but I know very little of Rohan's history, save that we are old friends - and so I would know more. Tell me."

"If battles interest you, Helm Hammerhand is an excellent place to start. Do you know why he is called thus?"

Her excitement made Boromir grin, but he shook his head.

"You see…"

* * *

That afternoon was spent exchanging stories of kings and stewards of old, and it was one well-spent. For, as if to avenge itself to the storm that had plagued them previously, the sun would never be as pleasant or as forgiving again for the rest of that month, and the heat would not abate as they left those chalk downs for the even greater hills in the north.

North they traveled, and northward on, even when Éohild asked to turn east. She had felt a fair wind come in from that direction, whispering of warm hearths and an idyllic peace disturbed only by petty kin, but once again Boromir rejected it. _He_ had decided they would head North, wanting to sweep the _entirety_ of the west of the Misty Mountains, and so of course they would do this.

First, Éohild thought that her frustration was caused by the fact that she bled. There were several times in the week that followed when they'd made to stop, to take shade beneath boulders jutting out from the land simply because the pain and most of all, the heat, were too much for her to bear. But when her suffering had reached its end, she found that she was just as incensed by Lord Boromir as she had been before they crossed the river after Tharbad. More so, perhaps, for that pleasant afternoon they had spent together had foolishly convinced her to believe that he would listen when next she made a suggestion.

She did not expect him to treat her as his equal; she was all too aware that she was a mere cavalryman to his captainship of _all_ of Gondor's forces, should Mordor ever bring its might to bear upon the White City. But she had fought for her kingdom for many years, and what instinct he had cultivated in the battlefield she had done upon the land, much wilder though this was from her own. She had hoped he would at least consider what was hers to offer.

But it was not to be. He was the Captain of the White Tower, and his was the final say in all matters during their travels. Soon they reached the tall hills of Evendim, which appeared to Éohild like a wall of evergreen. They did not climb the hills as she thought they would, but entered them, for the hills - or the near-westmost row of them - hid a cave system that seemed to dwarf the caverns where she had once feared for her sister's life. To the west of them ran another river, across which there were more of the Blue Mountains, but again Boromir did not care to go there. He was certain Imladris did not lie beyond the water.

"Always so certain," she muttered to herself several days into those hills; on the day she would reach the last shred of her cordiality. The caverns there were no Glittering Caves, and did not even have the decency to forbid the heat entrance with their dankness. Certainly it was much cooler beneath the hills, but hot air seemed to find them inside, slithering through the pockets of light between the hilltops no matter where they went. Éohild looked to Boromir as she thought this. Fitting, her mind added crossly.

"Is aught amiss?" asked Boromir, stopping to frown at her. The captain's mood was just as poor as hers. In the accursed summer blaze, Boromir felt the entitlement of his rank bristle at Éohild's sulking. She never spoke it aloud, never even glared in his direction, but they had now been companions for over a month, and he had begun to sense the shifts in her mood even when no word passed her lips. Her eagerness for stories had faded into silence that seemed to punish him, for he now sought the company of her conversation.

Éohild considered reticence once more. But they had not spoken for some time except to eat and pass rations, which had left her to broil in the heat and her bitterness at his utter tyranny. Finally, she met his gaze hotly. "Yes, my lord. I am afraid there is."

Boromir blinked once in slow surprise, and then twice more for good measure. Evidently, no one had ever answered this challenge. "Oh? And what ails you?"

"That there is no reason to move along these hills," said Éohild, struggling to contain her frustration and speak calmly. "Imladris will not lie in a cave such as this. Not even _orcs_ would take refuge here."

"And you know this, do you, for you have dealt with more of their number than I?"

"This matter is not one of experience," she snapped, "but of common sense!"

Boromir stared down at her. His composure was infuriating. "We will go through these hills, my lady," he said, as he had days ago. "If with your sense you wish to go elsewhere, you are free to return home."

At length, and at that, she could no longer deny her fury. Nostrils flaring, she very nearly stabbed a finger into his chest. "That is unfair!" she accused, clenching her fists instead. Her yell echoed across the cavern. "You know I would not turn back, and yet you taunt me. Your traveling companion. Not your soldier, not one of your men - your companion, though your glory be far greater than I could ever hope to achieve. If you desired a docile follower, you should have brought one of your foot soldiers instead! Why seek a companion in the Mark if you do not care for her thoughts? "

"Because—!"

Boromir began his retort, his mouth ready to form the words. But he could still remember himself, and as soon as he heard his own voice seem to grow against the cavern walls, he swallowed the ferocity that meant to mirror hers. Now he only clenched his jaw.

"We may yet find our purpose here. We will camp here for the night." He turned his back to her, casting a surveying glance over the chamber in which they now found themselves. As with the tunnels they had passed beneath these hills, the ceiling was fairly low, perhaps only four heads or five above his, and soothing light filtered in through cracks above them. It was as good a place as any to rest. "I will prepare the fire."

"Of course you will," muttered Éohild. And then she declared, "I tire of our rations. I will leave the hills to hunt, if that is well with my lord."

"I have already said that my lady is free to go as she pleases," said Boromir, having turned to watch her with that same composed indifference, and it was all she could do to keep eye contact. Even with his cool demeanor he could mock and intimidate her when he wished, but Éohild would not avert her gaze.

"By your leave, then," she said and, turning up her nose, stalked out of the chamber.

Boromir watched her go with that same blank expression. When he could no longer hear her footsteps, he inhaled deeply and sighed just as long, and though he wished he could expel his displeasure through it, his ire remained. Venturing into the caves bore a twofold purpose - the first being, evidently, to find the realm of Lord Elrond. Faramir had mentioned hearing tell of Elvenkings making grand halls of wood and stone. Could it not be so for Imladris as well?

The second purpose was Éohild, of course. She suffered terribly in the heat, especially when she bled in the week past. He had watched her struggle to continue through pain the women of his kin had once told him he could only imagine, had seen it in her grimaces, in the shallow breaths she sometimes took through it all, though she refused to let it slow their pace. It had been all he could do to convince her that they rest. Was he to raise the matter again when the very implication of weakness caused her such chagrin?

And even without the latter purpose, little though they both knew of Imladris, still it was he who knew more of it; still it was he who would answer to his friends, to the king of Rohan should harm come to her, if he did not lead them well. She was free to speak her mind, but if he knew better, then - well, was he to blame?

"Surely not," he grunted aloud, and set to his errand as he had intended. They had collected drywood before they entered the caves, so it was an easy matter. The true task was sitting still. He had decided that they would rest to give Éohild a chance to recover, but she stormed off instead. Now he was left to remain here, waiting for her, taking rest he did not need. Still, the prospect of fresh meat was a good one, and though he remained restless, his temper began to cool.

By the time he had set aside his frustration, however, Éohild had yet to return. Part of him considered searching for her - but what if they missed each other in coming and going? There was not only one way out of the hills.

There would, however, be only one way back if he wandered deeper into them, and surely Éohild would know not to follow if she returned earlier than he. Eager to keep to his feet, Boromir tucked his pack behind a few rocks in a shadowed corner of the chamber. When he was certain the fire would last even without him to kindle it, he paused, listening for footsteps. But Éohild would not return until nightfall, and he could only hear the flicker of campfire and the wind far above the hills.

With a resolute nod and a torch in his hand, Boromir headed further into the caverns.

But, he would later think, in the wisdom of his inebriated solitude, perhaps he should have given more credit to Éohild's instincts after all.

* * *

"By your leave, then," was all the reply Éohild could muster, but her upturned nose and the bluster with which she stalked out of the chamber guarded her pride. It guided her footsteps also, for the hills were labyrinthine, though it was her temper she would later thank. In her growing contempt for the Captain of Gondor, she had stared at the walls of each tunnel and chamber they passed with such intensity that she began to know them, and so it was that she found her way out of the hills.

There was never only one entrance to the caves, of course, seeing as they had traveled this way for days, and Éohild departed the hills as soon as she found one of the wide cavern mouths that had enticed them with shelter from the heat.

She decided to head for the river. Back in the midday heat, she remembered all that frustrated her. Today, as had been so of late, that was Lord Boromir. How foolish she had been to ever think he might care to consider her words. To think that the women of Meduseld, even of Edoras, had swooned at the very sight of him and his pretty fur cloak. He was an admirable warrior indeed, and perhaps a fitting heir to his father, but that was all. He was nothing but a tyrant!

Éohild grumbled to herself, stewing in her own frustrations until, after about an hour, her feet dutifully found the river. Not so much a river than a stream, in fact, which would meet the river further south whence they had come, but the sight she beheld was breathtaking nonetheless.

With a groan, as though she were very old and not one and twenty, she sat herself by the stream and breathed in the summer air. Apart from the unbearable heat, Éohild had almost forgotten that she needn't look to Meduseld or to Minas Tirith to find beauty. Even in these strange lands, summer had brought it to her with all its splendor. In the distance ahead, the Blue Mountains stood tall and proud, and Éohild imagined that if any Dwarves toiled away there, then there must be life there too, but why look further away? The grass was green beneath her boots, and across the stream birds trilled sweetly in the branches of trees and shrubs ripe for the picking.

The grin that had found her face softened at the thought of berries and nuts. It had been some time since Lord Boromir was able to forage for them. She wondered what Baldred and Garwine would think when she told them what he was like. What did they think, she wondered, when they learned she had left for this journey? Garwine would seethe with jealousy, no doubt—he had always admired the captain.

Éohild wrinkled her nose. Suddenly she remembered her quarrel with her companion, and found the answer to her question - they only admired him because they knew so little of Lord Boromir.

Still, the thought of him reminded her of her responsibilities. She had declared that she would hunt, so she could not return empty handed. Éohild set to it at once, crossing the stream into the sparse forest.

To her surprise, she caught a few hares almost at once. Whether this was spite or skill at work, she could not tell, though she later learned that it was good fortune regardless, for the sun began to set when she found the cavern mouth from which she had left the hills. With a grimace, she hurried through the caves. She did not wish to be caught in the tunnels after dark.

Éohild found their chamber right as moonlight became her only friend. Moonlight and the fire Lord Boromir had begun - but the man himself was not present. Neither were his belongings. There was only the fire.

"Lord Boromir?" she called out loudly - and then quietly, when a little of her voice echoed back to her. She frowned. Was he playing a trick on her? But this was not Garwine or Baldred, of whom she could expect such things. This was Lord Boromir, and they had not parted on good terms earlier today.

"...I have dinner," she called out again, though Éohild had a sinking feeling that he was not present to hear her. And if there was anyone present, they would still not hear her, for she had barely spoken her frustration above a whisper. "Where have you gone?"

Éohild let a few seconds by, or perhaps minutes - she was silent, at any rate, as though simply waiting would bring him back. When she finally breathed again, she set about the chamber, searching for signs of him. His pack, his sleeping bag, and his shield lay behind one of the mineral deposits hidden by the shadows (though this was now much of the room). Only he could have done this, which meant he had set out on his own, but why?

The answer soon came to her as she sat there, wondering if she was to wait for his return. She had been gone for hours. He must have grown impatient as she was now - but why had he not returned?

There was little use in speculation. Making herself a torch, Éohild kept her things hidden with Boromir's, taking only her sword and dagger with her. She let their fire remain, hoping that her companion was only lost, and it was only a matter of time before she found him in the tunnels.

As she set out after him and searched them herself, however, she began to feel as though the chambers were growing wider and more massive, or that she was shrinking.

It was of course the former, but soon her torchlight lit naught but the immediate space before her. In this portion of the hills there were no more cracks for the moonlight to slip through. In the darkness she imagined they had been as the gills of fish, but, sewn closed by the land, the air was closer than ever, and she could barely breathe. The true way of it was that she had traversed the caves' slow descent underground.

Éohild went further still, until the ground beneath her boots was damp, and an earthier smell than ever before filled the air. There she began to hear the familiar _plink!_ of drops from stalactites high above. The sound reminded her of the Glittering Caves behind Helm's Deep, where she and Garwine and Baldred would often escape when they were particularly tired of chores - but that was all. Those caves back home were beautiful, grand halls of shimmering stone, an otherworldly palace of ore that glistened like starlight.

This place was dank. And more than dank, she realized as she crossed into another chamber - it smelled of rot.

Éohild raised the back of her glove to her nose, meaning to search the wide chamber for the source of this stench - some mineral, perhaps, that was not present in their caves? - but it was her feet that found it and not her eyes. She held out her torch, searching for some difference in this chamber, and then followed it, or tried to. Where she had expected hard if unstable ground she found something rather soft, and barely caught herself as she stumbled back. With a slight yelp, she lowered her torch and pressed a knuckle to her teeth.

A body.

Two of them, she found, and for a moment it seemed as though her worst fears had come true. But a gulp and a deep breath gave her some sense, and upon closer inspection, neither of them was Lord Boromir. No, their cloth was entirely different from his. Simple, shabby compared to the elegance that denoted his rank, but theirs was no less sturdy.

Well. Not sturdy enough, she supposed.

The bodies left her with more questions than answers; more dread than hope. Surely Lord Boromir would have known it was too perilous to continue, and then returned to camp if he had stumbled upon this as well.

But he had not.

"Lord Boromir," Éohild murmured, this time with worry as she stared into the darkness that lay before her. "Where have you gone?"

When no one answered, she forged ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger! Sort of. (It's all right, guys. They do go on to partake in the Quest of the Ring.) Anyway, Elis here in place of Senna this week! Senna just had her birthday this weekend and wanted to share this with you guys, though she's been so busy lately that updates to come may not be as frequent as she'd hoped after this.
> 
> We hope you liked the chapter though! This was a true labor of love for Senna. I had no part in it (I usually go over it afterward, but Senna is really the writer for this) since I've been so busy myself, it's just she's busier now so I get to post it! Our notes on this were basically that after the previous chapter, Boromir and Éohild start to break the ice, which means they can start to be themselves more and not as rigid, but being yourself means showing someone the good and bad sides of yourself. I had a long explanation here explaining our notes about the development going on in this chapter, but it got winded, and we want to hear your take on it! 
> 
> So please let us know in a comment, we'd love to hear from you! And if you'd like our notes for it, you can comment too asking for it and we'll happily explain. I will say this - if Éohild seems more immature in this chapter compared, it's because she's not putting her best foot forward anymore and is more trying to befriend him, even though Boromir is resistant out of a sense of responsibility (and natural bossiness eheh).
> 
> Again, we'd love to hear from you guys! We hope you're all staying safe. See you next time!


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